


The Devil's Cram School

by gauthannja



Series: The Art of Management [2]
Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Cram school, Exams, F/M, Heartache, Sempai's third year, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauthannja/pseuds/gauthannja
Summary: Hiruma becomes the ‘manager’ of a university entrance exam preparation committee during the Devil Bats sempai’s third year in high school.I am indebted and grateful to Caeslin for their generous feedback, editing and friendship.





	1. March

**Author's Note:**

> » Sequel to ‘[Followed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7487628)’ building directly on conditions established in that work. (... so please read that story first! Seriously this will probably make very little sense otherwise!!!) «
> 
> »» Some non-cannon and factual liberties have been taken in this fictional story. ««
> 
> »»» Content warning for foul language. «««

~*~

            Hiruma had been acting a little bit strangely recently, Kurita reflected as he peered at the folder in the waste paper basket. It must have been the same one he had caught Hiruma staring at the day before. Mind you, Hiruma sometimes stared at things. It wasn’t really that strange. But having spent quite a bit of time with him these last few years, Kurita was fairly confident he could tell when his friend was not his usual self. It was not the stare itself but more like the tension in his shoulders and the twitch of his fingertips that told him something was wrong.

            This was only the most recent of a series of strange things about Hiruma. For one, Kurita would have never believed Hiruma would make the second year members of the Devil Bats retire at the end of the year. Of course it was a school rule that third year students did not take part in club activities at Deimon High, but school rules had never meant much to Hiruma before. Guilt punched softly in Kurita’s chest as he remembered how disappointed he had been at the announcement. Without realizing it, he had been counting on Hiruma to coerce the principal and let them play American football together for another year. He knew Hiruma, he believed in him, and he had trusted him to do this, even if it was technically wrong. He couldn’t help feeling a little betrayed, but that feeling didn’t last long.

            “I’m counting on you, Fatty, to keep an eye on these fucking brats. They’ve got some big shoes to fill. Literally, in your case.”

            The tears that had threatened to flood Kurita’s eyes were held back by those words. Of course! Hiruma was so clever. They would still be part of the team, they could still join in and help out, but the younger players needed space to learn how to run things on their own. The gloom that had been gathering in his heart dissolved as he pictured himself watching the Devil Bats’ progress like a proud mother hen. There would be new linemen among the incoming students, and he would be ready to support them. Maybe starting with some cake.

            When he thought about it, it must have been because of Musashi. It was the only thing that made sense. Just the week before the three of them had been hanging out on the riverbank after practice, as they had been doing a lot lately now that the tournament was over. They didn’t talk much, but Kurita knew they were thinking about the same thing. Before, when it had been a thing in the future, it was the goal that bound them together, and the past was something he had rarely thought about. Now the Christmas Bowl was a memory—the most incredible, fantastic and wonderfullest memory. It filled his dreams and most of his waking thoughts too, as nearly everything in his life reminded him of their long journey toward the tournament finale. Now that the Christmas Bowl belonged to the past, the future stretched out before him, gapingly wide and open. Thinking about the future made him dizzy, but repeating those memories made him feel better. As long as the three of them were together, any future would be a good one.

            They sat staring into the sky across the water. The plumes of their breath matched the river of stars that gleamed brightly as their reward for sitting outside on such a cold night.

            “Spring break soon,” Musashi muttered. The silence that followed was uneasy. In the grave tone of his words, Kurita knew there was something unsaid and that made him afraid. He waited for Hiruma to make some snide remark or awful joke to goad him into a proper confession, but he only heard the distant rumble of a jet somewhere out of sight. He glanced anxiously between the two. Neither spoke. Kurita fidgeted.

            “It’ll be warm soon, too! There will be cherry blossoms! And we’ll have no classes, so we can practice all day!” He tried to lighten the mood and delay the truth. “Hey—we could have a mini-tournament! With scrimmage teams, and… well…”

            “Cherry blossoms, eh…” Musashi repeated, sad and rough.

            “Old man.” Hiruma’s voice cut through the nonsense. “Waxing melancholy like some broken-hearted maiden doesn’t suit you. Just tell us.”

            “Ah…” Musashi half smiled at the taunt. “Well, I won’t be able to play over spring break.”

            “Oh!” Kurita wished he could take back his silly attempt to cheer him. “Of course, you have to help your father. I should have thought of that.”

            “It’s not just that.” Musashi went on. “I’ll be helping him as much as I can next year, too. He’s insisting I graduate, otherwise—”

            “—you’d drop out now and take over the company. Surprise, surprise.”

            Kurita looked alarmed. “Wait! So you can’t play football with us…at all?”

            Musashi gave him an apologetic smile. “Well, never say never, but I’ll be seeing you guys more in the lunchroom than on the field, is all. I can’t commit to the team, and I don’t want you guys waiting for me. I already made you wait enough.”

            Kurita’s shoulders sagged. It was selfish to feel sad about this. After all, he had gotten everything he ever wanted: they had gone to the Christmas Bowl together. He wished he could be stronger, both in his heart and behind his eyes where the tears always gathered so quickly. He stole a glance at Hiruma, who had probably never produced a tear in his life. He couldn’t tell if he was sad inside, or surprised, or angry. Hiruma was just sitting, looking at the stars as though he had never seen them before, as though the future was soaking in through those eyes that missed never missed a thing.

            The next day he had announced the retirement party.

            That wasn’t all. There was also the way he… this was starting to sound crazy, but it was the way he _looked_ at his computer. Even though he couldn’t explain why it was different from usual, Kurita was confident it was strange. Hiruma looked the way he did when he was planning some grand strategy, gathering pieces and fitting them together behind his eyes. Whatever he was doing, he seemed consumed by it. The next season would only begin after the new school year and every team would have new members. It would be next to impossible to strategize now. No one would try to track the incoming cohort from their middle schools into high school teams–no one except maybe Hiruma, of course, but this is the type of thing he would normally assign to Mamori, and both of them were supposed to be retired.

            Inside that folder there could be a clue. Maybe… maybe he should take a closer look. He crouched and fished it of the basket. H-I-R-U-M-A. It took him a minute to sound out the neat romanji lettering on the label, but he recognized the class and student number instantly. Hiruma! It seemed especially strange for Hiruma to keep a file on himself. Kurita glanced around the club office, too conscious this might be a trap. He really should not open this folder. No matter what important information might be inside. No matter how much he might be able to help Hiruma get back to normal. No matter what, he shouldn’t.

            Kurita opened the folder. 

~*~

 

            Hiruma savored the view from the front of the class, leaning back in the chair with his heels on the desk and a very special, freshly polished weapon resting against his shoulder. His gum bubble popped and he blew another, waiting.

            The American university entrance exams were known as the SATs. Of the Deimon High students who hoped to study abroad, a dozen were aiming to attend an American university for their entire degree rather than merely doing a semester on exchange from a Japanese university. Consequently, the members of the American entrance exam preparation committee were the most studious of the entire school, and as far as nerds go, the most ambitious. And Hiruma had decided to become their manager.

            For the moment the room was empty. Each student who had entered had promptly, and with good sense, turned on their heels to lurk outside the doorway. There they exchanged panicked outrage in hushed tones; one girl was already crying. The dark glare that radiated from Mamori was especially delicious. Soon Yukimitsu appeared beside her in the hall and followed her gaze, his jaw dropping before he burst into a nervous laugh. Hiruma smirked. Maybe this would be fun after all. He had been worried he would live to regret that promise he had made.

            Their whispers and the shape of the crowd changed as a string of English words chimed through the air. “ _Alright, come on everyone. What are you all doing out here? Let’s get started.”_

            “ _Ms. Green-_ sensei! _It’s terrible!”_

            “ _Wait! Ms. Green, don’t go in there.”_

            Ms. Green laughed at their protests. “ _What’s wrong? Is there a bug? It’s only March, it’s not warm enough for bugs yet…_ ”

            When she reached the doorway her smile went dim. Hiruma’s burned brighter. She took in the scene with arms crossed. A weaponized Hiruma lorded over the empty room while the honors students cowered in the hall. After all their bubbly encounters in the past, he barely recognized the teacher before him now. This time there was no routine greeting, no phony chatter. Even her voice was different; its usual lilt had ceded to quiet, unyielding tone.

            “So, Hiruma, have you reconsidered?”

            “I’m running this show now.” Hiruma informed her. “The Devil Bats members are going to their dream schools, and I won’t let you ruin that for them.”

            He watched the twitch of her eyebrow and the corner of her mouth at the suggestion she was ruining the futures of any of her students, but she smoothly suppressed them both. “For them. Not for you?”

            “Everything I do is for me.”

            “Are you aware of what you are getting yourself into? This is not football.”

            “This might come as a surprise to you, but I’m not an idiot.”

            She studied him carefully. He looked back with all his sly confidence. The students in the hall watched in perfect silence. This was a standoff they had never dreamed they would witness, even if Hiruma was technically sitting. He had already revealed a crack in their beloved teacher’s armor. As she approached him, they held their breath, awaiting the fury that rumors suggested might lurk below her impossibly constant cheerfulness. She stopped in front of the desk with a loaded stare that almost spoke. Defiance? No. A challenge. A dare. His fangs flashed in anticipation.

            Finally, she held out the small stack of folders she carried.

 _“Thank you for volunteering to help with this Hiruma.”_ A careful smile touched her face as she reverted to English. _“I appreciate it.”_

            Hiruma stared at the offering before him. He should have snatched them from her hands and fired a victory round, but he was uneasy. Even if the outcome was the same as if he used the book of threats, the game was different now. If he refused the files he forfeited, yet taking them would mean accepting her challenge, on her terms. That wasn’t the plan.

 _Tch._ He chided himself. When did things like that ever matter? He reached out to take what he wanted, pulling the files from her fingers. Her grip was light, but strong enough he could feel the resistance, as if to remind him they were not being given away easily.

 _“It is nice that you want to help your teammates,”_ Ms. Green added in a voice too low to carry to the door, “ _but if a single one of these students doesn’t make it through the exams, you are the one who will have failed.”_

            She checked his face again to be sure he understood. He returned her gaze, unflinching. Satisfied, she turned to the hall and clapped her hands to call the attention of the students: “ _Alright, everyone! Please come in and take a seat. Mr. Hiruma will be leading the American entrance exam preparation committee from now on._ ”

            The students who weren’t paralyzed with disbelief yelped in dismay. Ms. Green’s joyful delivery of the news couldn’t distract them from the content of the message. There must have been some mistake. Yet did they really expect a flaky foreign language instructor to win against the already notorious student who controlled the school and half the district? They saw their futures reducing to ash before their eyes. Ms. Green took her leave with a beaming smile. _“Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be marking papers in the staff room.”_

            Yukimitsu Manabu was the first to enter. He looked more concerned about the wrath of the other students than the man who had commandeered their exam committee. The whispers were fierce. It had been quite the sensation when one of their own kind became a member of that American football club. They had been dumbfounded and proud and a little jealous when he distinguished himself on the field. Yet now there could be no other explanation for the demonic quarterback to take control of their study group. Yukimitsu must be to blame for this curse.

            At the front of the class, Hiruma’s voice boomed. “YA HA! Roll call! Anyone not in their seats will get…. ten laps around campus!!” He read the name on the top folder. “Aihara Marika.”

            In the hall, a small girl squeaked in alarm, pushing through the other students and landing in her desk in record time. She buried her face in her books. “H-h-HERE!”

            The other students regained control of their wits and hurried to their desks.

            “Ane- fuckin’ -zaki.”

            Mamori stood alone in the doorway. Her deadly stare had not lifted. All faces turned toward her as she entered the class with slow, deliberate steps. They pitied this girl, obviously traumatized by her year of forced labor as manager of the football club, but they had to admire her audacity. She stopped and stood in the middle of the room. Despite the clear skies, the air rumbled with an electric charge that set their hair on end. At the front, their new leader only seemed to gain strength.

            “Kehkehkeh, you’re not in your desk, fuckin’ genius.”

            There was a collective intake of breath. Mamori’s glare was an icy blaze. She held her ground a full second before she turned, dropped her books on the desk beside her and sat without a word. The air still crackled as Hiruma laughed again and continued.

            “Ishimaru fuckin’ track star Tetsuo.”

            The students exchanged glances. No one had noticed him until his name was called. They were almost certain he hadn’t been at previous meetings. Only then did they think to count the students in attendance and found there was one extra person. Something about this sudden appearance made them suspect he was also somehow involved with the infamous football team.

            Aside from some quivering voices and the liberal use of profanity, it might have been an ordinary roll call. To be sure, they had become honors students by recognizing the advantages that respecting rules could afford them, and they had developed a tendency for obedience. Roll call was not the moment they would mount their resistance, but that did not mean they would remain passive forever.

            Most of the names had been called when suddenly Hiruma paused. He looked at the folder with an open scowl, then put it to the side without saying the name.

            He called the last student. “Fuckin’ baldy.”

            “Here, sir!”

           Hiruma stood half on the chair, half on the desk, brandishing his weapon. “Listen up nerds. I’m in charge here now. My job is to make your fucking dreams come true. I will use every method at my disposal. And I guarantee you will win if you obey this one rule: no quitting!”

 

~*~

 

            There was much inside the folder that Kurita could not understand. Many sheets covered in dense, typed English and as many half-completed forms. One thing he did understand was the kanji of class subjects on what was obviously some kind of report card. Kurita averted his eyes, but his already compromised respect for Hiruma’s privacy was completely overwhelmed by his curiosity. These were all Hiruma’s marks for his first two years of high school. As far as Kurita was concerned, Hiruma was a genius. His marks, however, were on the low end of average. If he was disappointed, he was not surprised. Hiruma probably put in the bare minimum effort necessary to pass his classes, and in that sense these marks could be considered impressive.

            A small paper clipped to the report card caught his attention. It was handwritten in a fine pen, covered in lines of numbers and letters in various combinations. One combination was circled: a long line of numbers in the high 90s that ended with an A-. Kurita puzzled at the meaning. It was impossible to understand. It was almost like calculations for a future report card. A dream report card?

            He returned the past and future report cards back to the folder and looked again at those strange English pages. Most of the forms had logos, like an official document, and some of them looked vaguely familiar. Wait. He remembered where he knew them from: American college football. Not the team logos, but the schools they played for. Slowly the pieces started to fit together… Hiruma wanted to study in America!

            “He never told me…” Kurita wondered aloud. They hadn’t talk about the future or their dreams. Until recently, dreams had only ever meant one thing, and other dreams could not easily take its place. Other than that single clear goal, he had trusted in some vague future that involved football, but in it they were always together. On some college team, maybe, but somewhere in Japan, not America. No one said anything about that. Except Musashi wouldn’t be going to college…

            Kurita’s throat knotted and his eyes grew huge and round. Alone again. He would be more alone than ever before. America was so far away, Hiruma might as well go live on the moon. They could never sit on riverbanks or compare the stats of rival teams or run laps or plan strategies together… and no matter how hard he practiced, he could never, never ever snap a football all the way to America. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He had to throw that horrible folder away, back in the trashcan, where it came from!

            His hand stopped just above the rim of the basket. For some reason he couldn’t let go. Hiruma had already thrown this folder away, Kurita remembered. He had thrown away his dream. This realization hit him harder than the thought of being left behind. No, Hiruma wasn’t going to America. The tears in his eyes were no longer for himself. Hiruma probably needed someone to cry for him right now. Carefully, as though he were cradling his friend’s heart, Kurita tucked the folder into his bag.

 

~*~

 

            The American exam prep committee met the next morning at dawn at the school’s main athletic grounds. Despite the indignation that they traded in whispers among themselves, every member was present and punctual. Every member, that was, except one. They cast nervous glances as they waited for their new manager to make his appearance.

            Mamori had not spoken to Hiruma since he had taken over the committee. Not when he appeared beside her as she walked home. Not in the morning when he was waiting at her gate. Her silence was not for lack of things to say. It would be different if he alone were to blame for the fire that burned behind her eyes—and he remained first and foremost the guilty party—but she had asked for this curse and she knew it. Even in stories there was always a price for your heart’s desire, especially when obtained through dark magic, whether by trading with witches or making deals with the devil. Isn’t that precisely what she had done? Mermaids had given their voices for legs, only for every step to feel like knives. Mamori had lost her voice by choking on her own foolishness. She had only wanted to walk together, side by side. She had never asked for this, specifically, not this. She only hoped he could feel the daggers in her glare. He must have felt them, because every time he caught her eye his laugh rose a little louder.

            She could have dealt with the consequences if they had only been for her, but innocent bystanders had been dragged into it. This was the line he had crossed that could not be forgiven. If this was her curse, then she should bear it alone. Targeting her classmates had lit the cold blue fire in her heart. She would protect them—with her dying breath, she would protect them—but he could only be doing this to get to her, and she would not rise to the bait. From experience she knew she could rail against him in protest with all her fury, with righteousness and reason on her side, but it would change nothing. She would find a way to put a stop to this. In the meantime, her loathing smoldered and her eyes burned.

            “What are you doing in your uniforms, fucking nerds!?” Hiruma greeted the group. He himself was wearing a uniform: a red jersey with the number ‘1’. An astute onlooker might have notice Mamori’s eyes flash _THIS IS NOT FOOTBALL_ in Morse code. “Apparently I have a lot of fucking work to do before these exams because I am dealing with a bunch of fucking idiots who don’t even know how to dress themselves properly!”

            The students cowered at his verbal attack and glanced at one another. They had dressed in their winter uniforms, as they would for any normal study group in mid-March. The two boys who had trained with the football team, however, had shown up in their gym clothes. A sinking feeling descended on the group.

            “What are you standing around for? Go change!” Hiruma shrieked, but it was the rounds of rubber bullets that spoke the loudest. Mamori expertly deflected with her bag to buy them time to escape. When they were out of range he put up his gun and grinned at her. She ignored him and joined the others to change.

            The first order of business of the American exam prep committee was ten laps around the main athletic field. The news was sufficient cause for open rebellion. They had suspected that their manager did not have much experience with academic pursuits and would destroy them with pointless activities more suited for sports-types, and this command confirmed it.

            “H-Hi-Hiruma-a…sama!” One of the boldest students faced him defiantly, hoping against hope that his honorific choice would shield him somehow. “We agreed to morning meetings t-t-to prepare for the entrance exams! Not to run laps! We have a lot of material to cover. We shouldn’t waste time like this.”

            His courage was tested as Hiruma turned toward him, his face half in shadow revealing his most demonic expression. The boy trembled but somehow stood his ground. Hiruma laughed as though he had been waiting for someone to doubt him.

            “KEHKEHKEH!! Perhaps I didn’t make this clear: the only thing I am interested in is winning. If you recall, _I_ am the one who set this schedule and _I_ am the one who is preparing you for the entrance exams.” He directed his next words to the entire group. “There are three reasons why you are going to run laps this morning and every morning from now until those test scores are in your hand, and you fucking brainiacs had better figure out the answers before you finish those ten laps, or I will make you do ten more!”

            He readied his gun, which was enough to set them running down around the track. Mamori noticed Yukimitsu linger behind, watching the others with a childish grin before jogging after them. Joining the Devil Bats had changed him, she knew, but seeing him in this context reminded her how far he had come. He had been lopsided before thanks to those years focused solely on his studies, but balance had been struck through sacrifice most people never experienced. Physically, he had barely survived the brutal training of the Death March. Psychologically, he had endured cruel treatment from Hiruma not unlike what he was delivering to the exam prep committee now. No, that wasn’t quite right. She had to admit Hiruma was being much kinder to them than he had been with Yukimitsu. She tried to stop thinking and concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other.

            After a few minutes the racing start induced by fear had lost its effect and the abilities of the group emerged on the track. Some were struggling against the limits of their bodies, others were fit enough but their hearts were writhing against the situation. Former track captain Ishimaru was not showing off, but even at his relaxed speed he had already lapped little Aihara, who was breathing hard and on the brink of tears. Yukimitsu was gaining on her too, but hung back when he reached her. “Hang in there, Aihara-san. You don’t have to go fast. Just keep moving forward. You’ll make it.”

            The girl wiped her eyes and the sweat from her brow and nodded. “N-no… no qu-quitting!”

            From the other side of the field Hiruma jeered, “Still no answers? Fucking dumbasses!”

            The girl ahead of Mamori straightened abruptly, as though she had caught a spark on a door handle. She veered off the main course until she drew up before their commander. There she bowed ceremoniously.

            Hiruma frowned at the gesture. “What the fuck is this?”

            “Moriyama Sachiko, class representative, class 2-1,” she shouted, “Running increases blood flow to the brain and improves mental functions including reasoning and memory! Sir!”

            “Ya ha!!” A round of gunfire heralded her correct answer like sound effects on some twisted game show. “Very good! Little Miss fucking _Tree Mountain_ here figured out the first reason! Two more!”

            “Excuse me, but…” she hesitated, but seemed obligated to correct his English, “I think you mean _Forest Mountain._ ”

            He received the criticism with a wild smile. “Kehkehkeh, eight laps is enough for today, fucking _Forest Mountain_ _Girl_.”

            Moriyama rejoined her sweating peers. With a jut of her chin she submitted her victory as a challenge to a spindly boy with long limbs and no running form to speak of. The gesture filled him with an urgent need to find the next answer, although he was obviously already putting more effort into thinking than running. He pulled at his hair and even covered his eyes before an idea dawned on him, at which point he promptly tripped over his own feet in his excitement.

            “The… lymphatic system!” he spat out between heavy breaths. “It needs… mechanical propulsion… It’s twinned… with… the cardiovascular… And it has… important… immune function. So running… Hiruma-sama wants us to run… so we don’t get sick!”

            “Tch. This from the guy with perfect marks in science. It took you long enough, fucking spider! Kehkehkeh! What, were you sleepwalking?”

            The boy looked devastated until he realized he had actually given the right answer. A half-smile crept under his disbelief, and he pushed ahead with new force to catch up with Moriyama and tally the scores in their ongoing rivalry.

            “There is an important lesson to draw from this answer,” Hiruma observed in a menacing tone. “As your fucking hero was so kind to remind me before, there is no time to waste. Starting today there will be no vacations, no ‘off days’ and no sick days. So anyone who dares to catch fucking influenza… I will personally kill them!!! Got it? Kehkehkeh!! One more.”

            His threat sent shivers through the joggers. The flame behind Mamori’s eyes burn colder. Hiruma probably wouldn’t actually murder anyone, but any form of punishment would be unfair to someone already suffering from the flu. She checked for signs of illness among her classmates, but at the moment they mostly looked sweaty and tired. She would have to watch them closely to make sure she could treat anyone who showed symptoms before he caught on. And pass by the pharmacy for some immune-boosting supplies.

            As the last students dragged themselves through their final lap, the third reason remained unguessed. Those who had already finished, even the ones collapsed on the ground, were still trying to puzzle it out. Mamori positioned herself protectively between them and the armed man like a shield. It seemed as though the atmosphere had changed. Even if fear still propelled their anxious search for the last answer, their hostility at being hijacked had been forgotten—but she was thinking about the time even before the takeover. When the American entrance exam preparation committee had met before, they had been polite but hardly friendly. Now they seemed to have a common cause. United. Almost like a team.

            “Oh! What about oxygen?!”

            “Yeah, nice idea! The third reason, is it to improve our breathing?”

            “That is covered by Reason Number One, circulation to the brain. Sub-points don’t count.” Hiruma watched the last runners approach with a mischievous smirk. “Tch. Still nothing? How disappointing. What did I say if I didn’t have answers before the laps were finished? Ten more? Or was it twenty? Kehkehkeh!”

            Her peers scrambled to think of something while Mamori watched. He was going to make them love him, she realized. The fear was just a pretext. It would keep them around long enough to get a taste, to make them yearn for his approval. It would be for love that they would work harder than they ever would alone. They would believe in him believing in them more than they could ever believe in themselves. Who wouldn’t give up everything to make this madman proud? She forgot to fight back the smile that crept onto her lips, and she was practically grinning when their eyes locked. He returned it with a grin of his own. There was no point resisting. He had won.

            “So, fuckin’ genius? What’s the answer?”

            “The third reason,” she shook her head softly, “is because you told us to, Hiruma-kun.”

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Deimon third years are out of clubs “after summer” says Kurita in vol. 14.  
> ** You can't actually fail the SATs!  
> *** Now that Mamori is retired from the club he can't call her the fucking manager anymore.  
> **** The Eyeshield wiki says Hiruma extorted the principal to arrange for near-perfect scores, but I had already half-written this on the premise that his marks kind of sucked. Oops.  
> ***** I know nothing about guns... so their names and descriptions may not be accurate :P
> 
> To be continued...


	2. April

            With a soft clatter, a cup of black coffee appeared before him.

            “Thank you, Mamori.” Musashi always said the right things, when he bothered to say anything. Out of habit, Hiruma began to form some snide remark, but for some reason it didn’t reach his tongue. First week of third year and he already felt old. They sipped their coffee as she set out cream and sugar at the fat ass’s empty place. She strategically placed a lunch box between them, filled with homemade and very wholesome food as though she was worried they weren’t getting enough nutrients. Then she took her leave, saying she wanted to check on Sena and the others. By the time she closed the door he had completely failed to scold her about babying them too much. He could have at least told her to study instead, but he didn’t. His mind was on something else.

            Lying to other people was one thing. That was useful and generally worthwhile. Lying to oneself, on the other hand, was stupid and potentially dangerous. It led to errors in judgment and all manner of headache. It was that smile—that fresh, not too sweet, uncontrived, just purely _Mamori_ smile—that forced him to admit he had been lying to himself. He had let himself believe that the infernal glare she had leveled at him that first day had fuelled him. That it had given him power. It had certainly been amusing and it hadn’t suited her at all, but laughing at a novelty and pretending it was a reward that drove him forward were two different things. That smile cast her loathing glare into relief, exposing his lie like a key that didn’t fit the lock. He didn’t thrive on that glare and it didn’t merely annoy him, either. The truth was, it wounded him. He sealed the observation away; examining it closer wouldn’t help anything. He simply had to make sure he never saw that glare again.

            “You’re quiet.” The old man was so observant.

            Sipping while smirking was part of Hiruma’s vocabulary, and it amused him to say nothing to such a comment.

            “I heard you were busy over the break.”

            “Keh, I heard the same.”

            “Well, business is good. Something to be thankful for, anyway. Thankful for these lunch breaks, too.”

            “Damn straight.” Every day of spring break the study committee had met at dawn and left school at dusk. Hiruma had _managed_ the hell out of them and enjoyed every moment, although they may not have felt the same. Yet when they had rallied against him to demand their lunch hours free he had allowed them their victory. It would be their sole break from studying, but it was also his sole break from them. And it was good. Whether it was the coffee or the company, he felt revitalized. The clubhouse was peaceful except for Kurita’s untouched drink.

            “Studying in America, eh?” Musashi mused. “I’m happy for you. I mean they invented the sport. Playing on a college team… it’ll be a great thing for you.”

            “Tch. Who said anything about studying in America?”

            “Well, in that case, do you want to explain to me what you are doing on the American exam prep committee?”

            “I’m not _on_ the fucking committee, I’m leading it. Third year was looking to be dull, what with being retired and all.”

            “So, to replace the joys of American football you have taken over a university entrance exam study group? Still meddling in other people’s business I see.”

            “Our teammates are in that committee. I couldn’t let the incompetent teachers of this godforsaken school get in their way,” he shrugged, “So I’ll lead them to victory.”

            “But you are not going to take the exam?”

            “Keh. You’ve been paying attention.”

            “And why not?”

            “I’m not studying in America, got it?”

            “Fine.” Musashi savored the bitterness of his drink. “I barely understand you on the best of days. Not that it ever mattered. I don’t need to understand you to trust you. But do you, yourself, do you even know why you are doing this?”

            Hiruma’s own cup was empty. There were many ways to deflect the question, but Musashi was the one person who might understand, who he might _allow_ to understand. Still, it wasn’t that simple. The best way to express it was to answer, but with a lie. “Yeah, I know why.”

            He submitted to Musashi’s accusing stare, relieved that he could still trust the old man to see right through him. He wondered if he had ever lied to himself about Musashi.

            “Musashiii!!! Hirumaaaa!!!!” Kurita burst in. “There are so many first years trying out for the Devil Bats!! I saw lots of guys who look like great linemen, probably!”

            “Of course there are!” Hiruma pulled a pistol from his bag, disassembling it to check and clean the moving parts. “After we made it to the Christmas Bowl, every kid who gives a shit about American football and isn’t completely fucking stupid applied to Deimon.”

            “Of course! You’re right! It’s awesome! Let’s go watch the tryouts!”

            “Fatty! I said no interfering!”

            “But--”

            He couldn’t point the disassembled gun at him, so he pulled out another. “Just sit down before I drink your fucking coffee myself.”

            “O-okay.” Kurita reluctantly obeyed.

            Musashi tried to interfere, of course. “ _Watching_ is fine, don’t you think, Hiruma?”

            “This time around they have to make their own team, their own way. We’ve got nothing to do with it.” Hiruma’s brooding stare shifted from his empty cup to those of his friends as he slid the metal pieces back in place. Musashi was finished. The pistol was not flashy enough for this task. Hiruma consulted the weapons bunker and was soon hoisting mid-side artillery rifles against each shoulder with hungry eyes. He tried to keep a serious face, but his fangs were showing when he added, “…but it would be bad for morale if Deimon’s own golden generation didn’t make an appearance.”

            Kurita’s eyes sparkled.

            Musashi crossed his arms, bemused. “No interfering, is what I heard someone say.”

            “Are you finished that coffee yet, Fatty?”

            “Mm!” Kurita poured the contents of the cup, the creamer and the sugar bowl into his mouth. “Let’s go!”

 

~*~


	3. May

            “Yuki-kun, you realize we will never forgive you for this.” Ono reminded him with an obstinate glare as the Devil’s Cram School broke into groups. Almost no one called it the American university entrance exam preparation committee anymore.

            “Oh, calm down Ono-kun, it’s not so bad.” Moriyama pulled out a paper to begin the outline for their topic presentation. “You’re just not used to someone smarter than you telling you what to do.”

            “That… _guy_ is not smarter than me!” Ono seemed to have a more specific choice of noun in mind, but even though Hiruma himself had stepped out, he cautiously refrained.

            “Moriyama-san is right. We’re used to self-directed study. Even in study groups we usually have individual plans and make our own decisions, so of course this is out of our comfort zone,” Tanaka remarked with his characteristic factual neutrality. “Teachers don’t have the time or energy for this type of leadership.”

            “By ‘leadership’ I think you mean ‘tyranny’.”

            “What Tanaka-kun means is you should be grateful someone is so interested in your education.”

            “Weren’t you listening? He only cares about the football members. The rest of us are being used. If we don’t get rid of him, we’ll regret it.”

            Two worlds had collided. Yukimitsu Manabu had worked with all the members of the Devil’s Cram School before, but it had always been in separate worlds. Hiruma Youichi had never been in any of the many, many study groups he had joined before this. He glanced across the room, where Mamori was intently jotting down notes for her group’s presentation. She was the exception, the only one who had moved between these worlds like he had. The two of them, and perhaps Ishimaru, too, knew their manager in ways the others did not. Hiruma was leading the SAT preparation committee with the kind of tireless, maniacal drive he had dedicated to football. It was a situation that Yukimitsu would have never dared to imagine. It bordered on surreal, impossible, and yet it was simple. Hiruma had put his mind to something. It was not strange at all.

            Ono had caught his smile. “You think this is funny, Yuki-kun?”

            “No, it's just…” He didn’t dare say what he believed, that no mortal could stop this man.

            “Ono-kun, stop blaming Yukimitsu. You’re the one wasting time when we have to plan this topic presentation and the assignment for the other groups before tomorrow’s meeting. Focus, please!”

            “This is what I mean! He makes us do all the work. A real leader would prepare assignments! What does he do?”

            The rest of the group ignored him and turned back to the task at hand. “First we should make a list of the key concepts to build the outline. Make a note of the most difficult concepts so we can target them in the assignment. Let’s divide up the sections.”

            Yukimitsu had expected this collision of worlds to be violent, but somehow it was the opposite. It felt stronger than other study groups. Under the flashiness of guns and the profanity and the threats, all of which suggested chaos, he could just perceive the outlines of a quiet, relentless, calculated plan. He wondered if the others could feel it too. The way their groups had been divided showed a careful consideration of their individual abilities and an effort to combine them to greatest effect. Hiruma had always known how to manage people and he knew, too, how to leverage their strengths and weaknesses to a larger purpose. What some might call scheming or extortion, Yukimitsu recognized as tactics: part of a grand strategy bent on winning.

            Eventually Hiruma returned, wheeling something on a cart covered in a sheet. Yukimitsu felt a sick pang in the pit of his stomach when he caught a glimpse of the disinterested, slightly-too-innocent face behind that bubblegum bubble. He knew what would come next: a smile, the wide-open kind that showed all his teeth, paired with gleeful eyes. These were the signs of a diabolical plan. He glanced at Mamori. She had seen the signs, too, and was already readying weapons of her own. He had seen her use that clipboard in the past to defend against Hiruma’s arsenal.

            “Kehkehkeh! POP QUIZ! When are the SATs?” The smile appeared as predicted. Hiruma aimed his pointed finger without warning at one of the students, who jumped as if it had been a gun.

            “D-d-december third!” They were acutely aware that the SATs were more than two months before the Japanese entrance exams, but there was nothing they could do about that.

            “CORRECT! At what time?” he swung his finger at another target.

            “Um… ah... at ten o’clock?”

            “CORRECT!! So how many hours remain?”

            Mamori could not hold back her exasperation. “Hiruma-kun, it is only May.”

            “It’s _already_ May, you mean,” he corrected her, then turned to the student with the top scores in math. “Fuckin’ Calculator-kun, how many hours remain?”

            “Five-thousand one-hundred ninety-six hours, sir.”

            “From that, subtract all the hours you miserable slackers will be sleeping.”

            The boy blinked. “What, right now?”

            “Yes, right now!”

            “Um, assuming average nightly sleep for six hours--”

            “ _SIX_ hours?”

            “…five hours?”

            Hiruma looked like he was going to hit him. “Never mind! Without wasting precious seconds with all the numbers, suffice to say there is not a hell of a lot of time left. On top of all those hours of useless classes, there will be the new coursework you will have to do, too. Not to mention those indulgent lunch breaks. But there are skills that are essential to destroying the fucking SATs that won’t be in your courses and cannot be perfected overnight. I have been easy on you until now, but the spring tournament is over. Real training begins today.”

            They looked at one another warily. Though they knew Hiruma had not cancelled the study group during the Devil Bats games out of kindness to them, that free time had still felt like a gift. They had pragmatically become the team’s biggest fans, praying that they stayed in the tournament until the very end, and it seemed to work. But all things must end. Now, as he said, the spring tournament was over. They couldn’t help being afraid of what that might mean.

            Hiruma dropped a stack of booklets on the desk in front of him. “Through methods you need not worry yourselves over, I have obtained the SAT exam questions and practice exams from the past eight years.”

            An alert hush fell over the room. He had their attention.

            “Big deal,” Ono sneered. “Anyone can get practice exams online.”

            “Not that many,” Moriyama hushed him. “And you have to pay for them.”

            “Kehkehkeh, it’s one thing to have the practice exams, and another thing to know how to use them.” Hiruma contemplated the students with a look that was at once mocking and curious. “How should we use them?”

            The groups turned to conferred among themselves. Unless singled out, Hiruma always expected the groups to answer. Ishimaru’s group was the first to propose a response. “We should start doing practice questions regularly, starting immediately! Depending on how many questions we have, weekly, or daily.”

            “Agreed,” the representative for Mamori’s group responded, “but the number of questions is irrelevant. We can cycle through them again if we run out. Practice questions should be daily.”

            “Are you forgetting the different types of exam questions?” Moriyama stood on behalf of their group. “Math, reading comprehension, sentence improvement, essays… we need to make sure everything is being covered, and we need to be realistic. Some we can do daily, others can be done once a week. Essays, for example – even if we write them daily, who will check them?”

            “Yes, who will check them…?” Hiruma’s sly smile suggested a trap.

            Ono rolled his eyes. “We will check them, of course. You said yourself, sentence improvement and reading comprehension is part of it.”

            “But who will check what we checked?” Moriyama retorted.

            “Tch, let your manager take care of such details.” Hiruma had obviously gotten what he wanted from their answers. “The goal of the current phase is to get used to the format of the questions. In the end, your essays will be the combined product of all your preparation to that point. For now, drilling the foundations is the most important. I think we all agree?” Hiruma placed a hand on the sheet that was still draped over the cart, waiting until each had made some affirmative sign. “Kehkehkeh! Prepare yourselves for Operation Pavlov!”

            The sheet fell away to reveal a small box with a dial, a switch and two metal bars attached by wires.

            “Oh, no way!” Takahashi exclaimed, her eyes huge with excitement. “Where did you get it? Did you make it? How many volts can it do?”

            “Not nearly anything strong enough to do any damage.”

            “Volts.” Mamori repeated, staring Hiruma down with dangerous glint in her eyes. “Of electricity. What exactly is that thing?”

            “Kehkehkeh! It’s a bell.”

            “It’s a shock box.” Takahashi was happy to elaborate. “It generates an electrical current. See, it’ll travel down the wire, then these metal batons—you hold them, right?” She picked them up to demonstrate. “The current travels the shortest path. If you hold with both hands, well, it runs through you. The dial sets the voltage so I guess that switch turns it on. Can I try? Maybe level three?”

            If Hiruma could giggle he did so as he fulfilled her request. There was a low buzz. Despite her preparation she still let out a tiny yelp and flinched as the shock ran through her. Yukimitsu looked from the device to their manager, searching for some clue to dissuade him from his suspicion. “Pavlov…”

            “Pavlov’s experiments made dogs drool at the sound of a bell,” Ono scoffed.

            “Pavlov’s experiments showed that reactions could be conditioned to be triggered by particular stimulus,” Tanaka explained more precisely.

            “Absolutely not!” Mamori knocked her chair over as she stood in protest. “Have you completely lost your mind? You are not electrocuting anyone!”

            “Keh. I am not making anyone do anything. It’s just a suggestion. I thought you might find it interesting.”

            Yukimitsu tried to follow his thinking. “You’re suggesting that we answer the practice questions while holding this thing. And if the answer is wrong...”

            “Then your body will remember.”

            “And if we get it right, what happens then?” One of the others asked. “Something good?”

            “Kehkehkeh, yeah, you win.”

            Yukimitsu considered this a moment, then stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

            Hiruma smiled like a hunter who had found a hare in his snare, but the look he returned to him was hard. “It’s not magic. It can only build on the foundation you have already laid. It will alert you to errors. That is all.”

            Yukimitsu nodded. His trust wasn’t misfounded.

            “It makes sense,” Moriyama stood. The others gaped at her as she crossed to where Yukimitsu was. “It’s easy to learn something wrong. Unlearning is hard.”

            “We are t-t-talking about the sentence improvement section, right? They are multiple choice.” Aihara glanced around timidly. “The answers are clear, in the answer key, but English grammar has so many rules and exceptions… it’s hard to keep them straight just thinking about it…”

            Hiruma smiled as she pushed her chair back. Meanwhile, Tanaka was preoccupied with the details, “I just want to point out technically this is more related to operant conditioning, while Pavlov’s experiment demonstrated classical conditioning, which…”

            “Sounds like you’re in.” A bubble of gum accompanied the observation.

            “Well, it’s scientifically valid.”

            Before long only Mamori and Ono remained.

            “Oh, you have to be joking,” Ono grumbled, putting a palm to his face. He started toward them but turned back to Mamori when she stayed behind. “Are you going to be ok just watching them?”

            “I absolutely will _not_ be watching them because no one will be electrocuted while I have something to say about it! This is way too dangerous!”

            “Mamo-chan, look, I know it sounds scary but I’m kind of a nerd about this. It’s totally fine.” Takahashi rushed up and pulled Mamori by the hand. “It was actually used for party games in the times before people figured out what electricity was good for. Come on, I’ll show you. Everyone hold hands!” She herded the others into a circle. The girls and the boys looked at each other in dismay. A partial solution was for all the girls to hold hands on one side and the boys on the other, but someone had to link the two groups. Hiruma was cleverly avoiding all the touching by taking possession of the controls of the shock box. The person on the end of the chain kept falling back to avoid the unwanted task until Yukimitsu found himself with one hand free and Aihara beside him. She looked like she was trying to be brave, so he tried to give her a smile. His palms were already sweaty and electricity hadn’t been introduced to the equation yet. Then Takahashi stepped into the gap, grabbing both their hands.

            “Hiruma-kun, please slowly turn up the dial. The first person to let go brings snacks for everyone tomorrow!” she called out with a laugh that slid into a tiny scream as the current began. Yukimitsu felt a tingling enter his arms, then run through his body and every single hair. But as the voltage increased the muscles in his hands and arms contracted. He couldn’t let go.

            “Acghk!! Dammit!” Beside him, Ono broke from the circle, waving his hands as if to shake out the feeling. The current was broken. The air felt different, lighter and heavier at once.

            “Ono-kun, I want melon bread!”

            “I want peach jelly!”

            “I’m not taking orders, dammit. I’ll bring whatever I feel like.”

            Some of the students took turns playing with the machine as Mamori watched from exactly where she had been standing. Yukimitsu approached her.

            “Are you ok? Did it hurt?”

            She shook her head, still a little angry. “Am I stupid? Is there something wrong with me? Why am I the only one who has a problem with this idea?”

            “You are definitely not stupid…”

            “If someone gets hurt because of me, I will never forgive him.”

            Yukimitsu chuckled nervously. It was probably more dangerous to take sides in a feud between those two than it was to use electric shocks as a study method. “Why would we blame you? We’re free to make our own choices.”

            “But this wouldn’t be a choice, this wouldn’t even be a matter of discussion if someone, this particular someone, hadn’t brought it up!”

            “It’s funny. I thought you of all people would trust him.”

            She looked at him, startled, a little hurt and just a little guilty. “I—”

            “No one else here knows him, not like we do. They don’t have a reason to trust him, so he has to prove his ideas to them. He doesn’t even tell them, he makes them figure out his reasons on their own. Only then do they believe him. But they are all aiming for the top. That’s why they chose his plan, electric shocks and all,” he really couldn’t hold back his smile, “because in the end they see all his crazy plans are designed for winning.”

            At first Mamori looked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language, but his smile was contagious. The others were setting up for the first run of Operation Pavlov. In the opposite corner of the room, Hiruma was leaning against a gattling gun. He pulled out another stick of gum.

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Shock (toque) boxes are [still a thing in Mexican cantinas](http://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2016/jul/13/feature-shocks-sale/)! 
> 
> This week I posted two chapters because April and May were a bit shorter than March was :)


	4. June

~*~

            “Good night, Mamo-chan! Be careful going home!”

            “Thanks for your hard work today, everyone!” Mamori called back. As always, the Devil’s Cram School had worked until darkness fell. It was whispered, sometimes within his hearing, that this was when their manager transformed into a bat and roamed the skies searching for the fresh blood that sustained him. In the three months they had been meeting, he never shared lunch with them and no one had ever seen him eat. That particular day Hiruma had slipped away an hour early, but it was less likely to feast on blood than to watch the end of the scrimmage match she could hear through the window as they were studying. She doubted it was by coincidence that their meeting room had a direct view of the Devil Bats’ practices.

            Normally she would leave with the rest of the study group, but today she had a message to see Ms. Green after the session finished. The halls of the school were dark and deserted but light still glowed from the staff room where half a dozen teachers were preparing their lessons, taking advantage of the free moment after clubs had finally gone home. Mamori slid open the door and announced herself, reluctant to interrupt their concentration.

            “Excuse me. It’s Anezaki Mamori from class 3-1. Is Ms. Green in?”

            The foreign teacher looked up, slightly startled. “ _Oh, hello, Ms. Anezaki! You came._ ” She stood, pulled something from her desk drawer and met the girl at the doorway.

 _“How is the committee?”_ Ms. Green’s smile was obviously a mask. _“Is everyone working hard?”_

 _“Yes, we’re working hard_. _”_ Mamori assured her. _“Everything is fine. Don’t worry.”_

 _“I’m happy to hear that, especially from you. Thank you.”_ Her smile looked more genuine now. _“Do you have any questions about the application? Have you started working on your entrance essay?”_

 _“I wrote a little in Japanese,”_ Mamori looked down, embarrassed. She hadn’t touched it since spring break. _“But it isn’t finished. I didn’t translate anything yet.”_

 _“That’s fine. You still have lots of time. It is good to think about it early.”_ Ms. Green assured her. _“You should try to write it in English, Ms. Anezaki, instead of translating. You will need to write in English for the essay portion of the SATs, too. Translating will take too long. Be confident. You can express yourself in English.”_

            Mamori blushed at what she considered an outrageous compliment, even if it was probably true. Still, writing something important like this was daunting. This essay might be the difference between being accepted to that school or not. Ms. Green gave her an encouraging smile until she remembered what she held in her hand. She let out a deep sigh.

 _“I hate to be the one to give you this, but…_ ” She reluctantly handed over an envelope. Mamori looked at it anxiously. It was unmarked, without even so much as her name. _“Now you should go. I don’t want to get in trouble.”_

            Mamori puzzled at the teacher’s words as she walked away from the staff room. She wasn’t expecting anything. Was it about the university applications? After she turned the corner she carefully opened the envelope.

            FUCKIN GENIUS COME TO THE CLUB OFFICE NOW.

            Mamori crumpled the paper in her hand. All this intrigue was scarcely necessary, in her opinion. At first she had wanted to respect the careful effort he had put into keeping their relationship from going public, which surprisingly seemed to be working so far. Every morning when they approached the school he went a different way so they wouldn’t be seen arriving together. On the way home, she walked with the others until they went their separate ways—it would be very suspicious to do otherwise—and then he would join her until her doorstep. Starting early and leaving late, there were few people in the streets, and the schedule was out of sync with the Devil Bats’ practices, too, so she rarely found herself leaving at the same time as Sena or the others anymore. These days she mainly saw them during that precious hour lunch break during which she often checked on them. Sena was coming into his own as captain, and it was rare for her to watch without tears forming. Sometimes she would watch with Yukimitsu, sometimes she would chat with Suzuna. Sometimes she would find a hidden spot to just lie in the grass and listen to the sound of the practice, like memories of a beach vacation trapped in a shell.

            Walking together was the part that she had asked for in pact with the devil that had never properly been sealed, but becoming her manager was something Hiruma had gotten into his head all on his own. She had never agreed to it, but nonetheless, he had woven his schemes and put them in motion without her consent. At least she understood now why he had dragged the entire study group into his plans to become her manager. When she had finally regained her voice it was the first thing she had asked. He had answered in a riddle that had no clues.

            “Kehkehkeh…There are three reasons!”

            “Please, Hiruma, just tell me.”

He must have been feeling particularly generous that day, because he told her without asking for anything in return. “The first reason is, while I may be the best manager you can hope for on your quest for your world-class fucking dream school, the best training comes from people with experience and expertise. This was a particular variety of minion for which I had not yet developed a robust system of extortion.”

            At least he recognized his limitations. She had been dying to remind him that she and the others had been studying since before he had even touched a football. “And conveniently for you, the smartest students in the entire school happened to be in the group already.”

            “Kehkehkeh, it was very useful to have all the specialists I needed delivered to me with a sweet little bow.”

            The main consolation was that though his objective was to exploit their skills solely to improve her performance, at least the others were also benefitting from the dynamic study environment he had created as a side effect. Despite his blatantly dishonorable intentions, she couldn’t find grounds to be angry. In fact, she was relieved, and possibly even grateful. Unlike many study groups, the Devil’s Cram School managed to be both rigorous and secretly very fun.

            “The second reason is to protect your reputation.”

            Her stare was a flat line of incredulousness. “…”

            His face was lamb-like innocence. “What?”

            “Since when do you care about my reputation?”

            "When have I ever demonstrated disregard for your reputation?”

            “Perhaps your book of threats might serve to remind you?”

            “Tch, you are too fucking good. You always do the right thing so I have never had to resort to that.”

            His flippant attitude on this topic, at least where she was involved, could not go unchecked. “By the ‘right thing,’ what you mean is so far what I do conveniently tends to correspond with what you want, or at least I haven’t seriously interfered in your plans yet. And the very existence of the thing you haven’t ‘had to resort to’ is exactly the lack of regard for my reputation that I am talking about.”

            “All the same, it’s easier if people don’t know about us.”

            Something twisted in her chest and she realized this was not the answer she wanted to hear. She wanted him to say that he didn’t care what anyone thought. Part of her wanted to shout it back at him, but she knew he was right. It would be a distraction and incredibly inconvenient if this came out. High school students could generate wild rumors based on little more than a glance between a girl and a boy, she could only imagine what would happen if they were substantiated. At school they carefully ignored each other, except to the extent that the cram school required. “So you roped Yukimitsu in as a cover.”

            “He got the same invitation as the others,” Hiruma smiled. “An all-costs-included, prestigious scholarship to a specialized SAT prep school, from an alumni society or something like that. He isn’t stupid. He didn’t have to join.”

            “And Ishimaru?”

            “Kehkehkeh. He’s the real cover. Fucking Baldy doesn’t need a manager.”

            “Yet you seem to think I need a manager.”

            “You need _me_ as your manager because unlike any of those other nerds who would be happy to be accepted at any school of any rank anywhere in America, you are going to study at Stanford. And I am an expert at winning.”

            She shivered a little when he said it out loud. Not ‘if’, not ‘try’, not ‘hope’— _going to_ study. “Does Ishimaru even want to study in America?”

            “He does now. Kehkehkeh.” He caught her sour expression. “Don’t look so worried. If, _IF_ , by some chance he flunks the SATs, even after all my training, you can hold that over my head for the rest of my life. The odds are certainly not in his favor. But if he doesn’t ace the _Japanese_ entrance exam, well, then my life will be very short. Death by the humiliation of defeat. Anyway, he is my problem, not yours.”

            She couldn’t approve, but there was little she could do. The other study group members had at least chosen their goals on their own terms. She would simply have to watch out for Ishimaru and do what she could for him, including help him escape, if it came to that. All this to obscure the fact that Hiruma had taken an interest in her dream of studying in America.

            When she flung open the door to the Devil Bats’ clubhouse, Mamori was ready with a variety of admonitions about the methods by which she had been summoned, but the words didn’t leave her mouth. The scene was too strange. Hiruma sat at the poker table bent over his laptop, surrounded on either side by towering piles of books. He entered something into his computer as he peered at one, open in his hand, through black-rimmed glasses that accentuated all his features. Her heart skipped a beat.

            At the sound of the door, he closed the book and removed the glasses. “So you got my message, fucking genius.”

            The spell was broken, but she had forgotten all the protests she had prepared. “Are you… actually studying?”

            “Keh, please. I am _preparing_ the review program. Which is why I called you here. I want your opinion.”

            Mamori opened her mouth and closed it again uselessly. How uncharacteristically considerate of him, to ask for her thoughts. With the precision of an expert quarterback, he threw a cloth bag at her.

            “Go get changed.”

            “Why do you have my gym clothes?!?!”

            “Kehkehkeh!”

            There could be no reason for this other than to drive her mad, she concluded as usual. She composed herself and very primly removed the items from the bag. He thought he was so clever and powerful and cool, but she made a wager of her own. She slipped off her shoes. He raised an eyebrow. Ignoring him, she stepped into the jogging pants, which she pulled up under her skirt.

            “What are you doing?” Some register in his voice seemed perplexed.

            “I am changing,” was her dry response as she unfastened the waist of her skirt and let it fall. What many boys didn’t realize, contrary to whatever image they had of girls’ change rooms, was that the fact that girls were pathologically shy about their bodies had resulted in masterful techniques for changing in front of others while remaining perfectly unexposed. There was no trace of hesitation in her practiced movements. He watched warily as she removed her green blazer, draped it on the chair and untied the ribbon at her collar. She picked up the t-shirt with a deliberate motion and gave him a flat stare. There was a pause, like a communications delay between a spacecraft and command station, before he turned his chair in the opposite direction and casually studied the wall. She pulled the shirt over her head and completely covered her blouse before unbuttoning it, more out of habit than of concern that he would steal a glance. She owed herself a cream puff for predicting the mighty Hiruma would fold.

            “So this review is another outdoor activity, I take it,” she observed, absentmindedly folding her uniform into a perfectly symmetrical stack. “It seems a little dark for such a thing right now. I trust you have accounted for that.”

            He was still facing the opposite wall, but she could hear his crazy smile. “Damn right I have.”

            The solution was floodlights. Very expensive-looking floodlights.

            “I think… people might notice us.” Mamori pointed out.

            Hiruma laughed maniacally. “They have twelve different settings! We’ll just use the lowest one.”

            The lowest setting did provide a gentle glow, just brighter than a full moon on a clear night, but it seemed obvious that they could still be seen at some distance. At least by some architectural miracle/oversight the teacher’s room faced away from the grounds. Moths fluttered around the lights, their bodies striking against them with soft sounds like raindrops. It might have been a charming atmosphere, if not for the football that Hiruma held.

            “Right, so, listen carefully, there will be a fucking test later,” he began, tossing the ball from hand to hand. “The review program is simple. First, I ask you a question, then you have to answer it before you catch the ball.”

            Mamori sighed. “Why am I not sur—”

            “What is the primary function of mitochondria?!!!!!” he shouted the question, releasing the ball at the end of the last syllable. Seeing the high-speed object approaching, Mamori instinctively raised her arms to protect her face. But she had learned a few things during that year of football practices, so she held her hands as they had learned in training, and miraculously the ball stopped between them. She exhaled in relief.

            “To produce ATP through cellular reproduction,” she answered.

            “Tch! You were supposed to answer before you catch it!”

            “Hiruma, your passes are named after bullets and lasers. That might be asking a lot, don’t you think?”

            “Obviously I wouldn’t pass at full speed to someone without equipment. I’m not a monster.” He seemed oblivious to any irony in that statement. “Hmm. Well, catching first and then answering should still be enough. Next, you ask me a question and pass it back.” He began running down the field.

            “Who is the most infuriating person I know? ” she threw it. The trajectory fell short of his route forcing him to change directions sharply, stretching to trap the ball.

            “Fuckin’ what-- what was that? Don’t you know how to throw properly?”

            “I was the Devil Bats’ manager, not an actual player.”

            “You’re holding it wrong. It’s like _this,_ ” he held up the ball with his hand in position. “And pull your arm back like _this_.” He drew and flung it back to her. The power of the throw, which he doubtlessly considered a mere toss, was unnerving, but the precision made it easy to catch. Seeing him frustrated about something like this inspired her to mischief. She arranged her hands on the ball with no regard for what he had shown her. “Like this?” she feigned ignorance and innocence.

            “No! What?!” Hiruma stomped across to her and grabbed the ball impatiently. He demonstrated the position again, grating his teeth. When it was her turn, she practically held it upside down.

            “Are you even watching?! It’s like you are trying to do it wrong!” he fumed, reaching out to reposition her fingers.

            “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she murmured. He slid a suspicious glance at her, realizing too late that his hands were on hers as he corrected her. His frustration at her technique gave way to something like patience, but he maintained a scowl.

            “Like this… step forward… arm back…” he explained. She breathed in the simple pleasure of the touch of his hands as he hesitantly adjusted her position through each stage. “And rotate through your shoulders… with your hips like this--and PAY ATTENTION-- …then straighten your arm as you transfer your weight...”

            Her outstretched arm was holding out the ball and Hiruma stood ahead with both hands wrapped securely around it. He looked at her seriously. “This part is rather important so pay attention.”

            She donned her most earnest and studious expression. He moved her hand and her fingers through the action of releasing the ball, simulating the spin with his other hand. “Got it?”

            Mamori nodded. He pressed the football back in her hand, then ran to put some distance between them. “Now pass me the fucking ball again, properly this time!”

            “How many meters in 10 yards, to six decimal places?” she shouted as she moved smoothly through the pass. It wouldn’t be entirely true to say this was her first time, but she had never had such attentive instruction before either. The arc was elegant, if a little farther than his current route. “Nine…point… ” he was forced to dive to catch it, “…four-four… ” On the ground with the ball in his arms he finally allowed himself a grin, “…oh-one-eight-nine.”

            They continued this passing game, using questions from as many subjects as they could think of. He had even developed a point system. Though this was technically studying, which they had been doing day and night for months, it was a refreshing change. When they left it was very late.

            “So, what is your analysis?” he asked as they walked.

            “I’m not sure there is anything I could say that you don’t already know.”

            “That’s not the point. I want to hear it from you.”

            She contemplated the game for a moment. “The main advantage is that we’re moving and thinking at the same time. I’m sure there is some principle or theory that backs this up as being beneficial.”

            “Yeah. Muscle memory. Offloading the storage of information from the brain to the body.”

            “I see,” she nodded thoughtfully. “That is useful. The biggest limitation is that it works best with extremely short questions and answers. It will be fine for reviewing basics, like vocabulary, simple equations, basic historical facts, but those aren’t the kinds of questions we will be seeing on the SATs. They are supposed to be mainly problem-solving questions, even for the easy material. Even our end-of-term exams will be more complex than what we could review in this game.”

            “Keh, yeah, I know,” he grumbled, hands shoved deeper in his pockets than usual as they approached her house.

            “Even so, we should definitely play it.” She glanced at him with a smile. “It was really fun.”

            She caught a faint trace of surprise on his face, but he wiped it away quickly with a smirk. “You are just trying to get out of running laps.”

            “You saw right through my plans,” she said gravely, opening the gate.

            Hiruma looked at the sky where the abundant clouds of the rainy season blacked out the stars. “You said you could lock yourself in the library for the entire year and still not get into this fancy school.”

            That was what she had said that time, when she had dared to tell him her dreams. She lingered in the entrance, wondering why he was bringing that up again, but the empty sky seemed more interesting to him than telling her what he was thinking. In the end he only grinned and moved to retreat.

            “Hiruma, it’s really late,” she chided him gently, “and you haven’t eaten. Come inside.”

            “Tch. That lady won’t like it.”

            “If you mean my mother, I think you’ll find she loves nothing more than having other people enjoy her cooking. It will make her happy. Besides, I doubt you can fulfill your duties as my manager if you are malnourished.”

            “You said it already: it’s late.”

            “So stay over.”

            “…”

            “You must be tired. There’s a futon for guests in the tatami room.”

            “Can you even hear what you are saying?”

            “Yes. Are you hearing something else? My room is on the second floor. I can lock the door if you think I should be worried.” She was surprised at his resistance over a pointless detail like this. It seemed like an obvious and practical arrangement, as long as no one else knew about it. “You always meet me here in the morning anyway. There is no point in leaving—unless you actually do turn into a bat at night and need to go looking for blood.”

            He had always enjoyed that image before, but this time he didn’t laugh. Tired of trying to coax him in, she leaned toward him and reached for his hand, but he pulled slightly away from her grasp. His hands, where so much of his intentionality was expressed. Without touching her, the subtle movement struck hard.

            “You don’t owe me anything,” he said.

            “Owe you?” Confusion was added to the sting. “What does that have to do with anything?”

            “I’ve been fine on my own for a very long time.”

            There was something hollow in her chest. Maybe she hadn’t learned anything after all. She had been overprotective of Sena, but he had been a small, bullied kid back then. Hiruma was none of those things. It didn’t matter that she thought he was wrong and that he was being too proud and willful—for better or worse, it was the strength of his will that she loved most about him. She had known for a long time that what she wanted and what Hiruma wanted were very different, of course, but she had been happy to ignore it.

            “Thank you for walking with me,” she forced herself to say, as a prickling feeling grew behind her eyes. He had been fine on his own for a very long time. She didn’t owe him anything. Lying was a terrible habit of his. “Good night, Hiruma.” Alone, she followed the entrance path to her door, her eyes shut tight against anything that would dare escape them.

            When she left her house the next morning Hiruma was leaning against her gate as usual, a bubble of gum primed to burst when she appeared. If his weapon hadn’t changed, she would have been tempted to think he had never left.

 

~*~

 


	5. July

~*~

 

            "Please clear your desks except a pencil and eraser.”

            The shuffling of an entire class of bags and pencil cases filled the room. Hiruma made no motion to close his laptop as he examined again the nerds’ grades to date, mentally crunching the numbers and projecting their term averages for a variety of possible outcomes on their end-of-term exams. This was, in fact, an exercise in fractions of percentages; with the exception of the track star, every one of them was in the top percentile and the only thing that could dangerously affect their scores would be not taking the exam at all. He glanced around the room. He had already done the rounds of the other classes to make sure no one had jumped ship. The four in his own class didn’t show signs of cracking. Bloody well better not; this was merely a warm-up for the endgame. Those fucking SATs. He noticed his index finger tapping the side of the screen, as though he had some kind of nervous twitch. Two rows away the fat ass beamed at him, fidgeting with his pencil so much he knocked his eraser off the desk and nearly became permanently wedged in the aisle trying to retrieve it. He would be lying to himself again if he pretended that tub of lard didn’t make him ridiculously happy.

            The exam appeared face down on his desk. Hiruma grudgingly closed his computer. At least once these end-of-term exams were over there would be nothing to distract them from the SATs. Planning their summer training schedule was much more interesting than sitting through this exam, but part of him was curious to know what was on it. He had done a hell of a lot of research to make sure those brats were prepared and he wanted see how much the contents resembled what he had predicted. He flipped the paper over.

            The first question was comically easy. He scanned the rest of the first page. What the hell, was the prof trying to give away points? This would all be meaningless if every idiot got a good mark. He flipped through the pages quickly—a classic exam-writing strategy, according to the guidebooks—and tossed it back on the desk. There were some tricks in there. He wondered if the others had caught them. He shifted his glance between the Devil’s Cram School members. They were diligently completing the answers, not breaking a sweat. Baldy was already on the third page.   As though he could feel himself being watched, the other boy turned cautiously to look behind him. When he caught Hiruma’s stare he returned it with a determined, laughing smile. That bastard, was that a challenge? Hiruma accepted the rivalry with an evil grin. He licked the tip of the mechanical pencil and devoured the exam, frequently throwing glances at his opponent to check his progress.

            Last page. Last question. The lead crunched under the last character of his final answer. He slammed the exam over, announcing his completion with the crash of his hand and pencil against the desk that made the entire class jump in their seats. Then he propped up his heels and leaned back in his chair, giving Yukimitsu a snarky look. Yukimitsu stole a dismissive glance at him, then calmly turned to the beginning of the exam and began reviewing his answers.

            Damn that bald dweeb! Hiruma realized he should be doing the same thing. If he cared, that was. Well, reviewing would help pass the time that remained in the period. It would be interesting, after all, to see if he made mistakes in the first attempt that could be caught in a second pass, as unlikely as that seemed. Casually he turned the exam back over and looked at the questions again. The main issue seemed to be that in his rush to beat his comrade some of his answers were impossible to read. Grabbing the eraser, he frowned at his carelessness. It was one thing to have the wrong answer, but to have the right answer and not get the points would be intolerable.

            After he had read through the exam a third time it was officially boring to him. He was confident the Devil’s Cram School had covered all the material, and it would be by no fault of his own should anything should go wrong for them. Kurita was still stressing over his answers, always so easy to rattle in these situations. It almost hurt to watch. The fat ass would be fine at the end of the year, he knew—this time he wouldn’t let anything go wrong with the football scholarships that were already lined up. It would have been more painful to put him through the cram school. Besides, despite everything he said loudly and often, he needed someone to keep an eye on the team. With Musashi away during the morning and after-school practices, Hiruma needed Kurita’s eyes. And that was why Ishimaru was his only option as a decoy.

            Considering the contents of the exam, he tried to predict the track star’s grade. Even if the passing review game seemed to have strengthened his command of the basics and Operation Pavlov had corrected many of his errors, that guy was never very good with trick questions. Usually that made a person useful to Hiruma, but not in this case. He ground his teeth. The impossible thing was, even if the SATs had been recently overhauled to avoid trick questions, the entire thing would be in English, including the math problems and an essay. That was hard enough for the star students who had been planning to attend an American school since childhood, half of whom had been enrolled in English cram school in kindergarten. Critical reading and thinking skills in a foreign language—it was a challenge, but as long as they wanted it, he would make sure they succeeded. That was what the summer schedule would be all about: English bootcamp. Mr. Track-and-fucking-Field might be average in every way, but at the very least he didn’t hate English. His cart maybe wasn’t hitched to a star, but it was hitched to a bloody demon, and they were about to see just how far hellfire would take him. A maniacal laugh rose in his throat, but for the sake of his dearest pupils still reviewing the exam he opted for a silent version.

            He could feel Musashi watching him from his seat in the back corner. As usual he seemed amused and serious and reliable and disapproving all at once. That look was the one thing that could calm him without fail. It could have been different, if the old man wasn’t so stubborn. He could have been the decoy. He could have taken the SATs. He could have studied in America. They could have gone together. But he was like the fucking genius in this way, how his family came before what he might have wanted for himself. This business with his father—Hiruma knew what a losing battle looked like. No amount of persuasion or coercion would change his decision. It could have been… but that was a lie, too. Shreds of eraser fell like snow as Kurita furiously erased an entire page of answers on the other side of the room. It never could have been.

 

~*~

 

            Mamori liked to walk just a little bit behind him so she could look at him. She knew he found it annoying, but she considered it payback for everything he had ever done that annoyed her. Still, when he peered back at her like this with that twitch in his eyebrow, she returned to his side with short, quick steps. It was a shame. The short sleeves of the summer uniform revealed his cute elbows nicely, but she would have to admire them another time. Her silly thoughts threatened to spill into the real world, and she raised a hand to cover the giggle she only partially managed to suppress.

            “What are you sniggering about, fucking genius?”

            “Oh, nothing.” Her smile was still laughing but she was mostly back in control. “I was just thinking… you really _are_ all that, aren’t you?”

            “What exactly is ‘all that’ supposed to mean?”

            “You know. You can’t hide it anymore. You are a brilliant villain and a brilliant quarterback and captain, and now you are also a brilliant student and everyone knows it.”

            “Tch. I don’t know why people always want to peg me as a fucking idiot. Of course I aced the end-of-term exams. Please don’t tell me you were surprised.”

            His cagey response only half-hid his secret. He was happy. She was sure of it. “I know you have always been capable of it, Hiruma, but you’ve never gotten marks like this before. Something has changed.”

            “Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed I’ve been coaching a bunch of fucking nerds. Those exams are basically research. I can’t really afford not to take them seriously.”

            “Hiruma. Between course work and the exams, you have near-perfect marks in all your subjects. If you keep this going, it will pull up your cumulative average!”

            “And?”

            “And? And you could get into a decent school in America.”

            “Where are you getting these ideas?”

            She nearly tripped at his response. “What do you mean?”

            “I have never said anything about studying in America, have I?”

            “I’m not asking you to follow me or anything like that.” She didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. “You’d have great training, strong opponents. It’s a wonderful opportunity for you. Are you saying you’re not even thinking about it?”

            “I didn’t think I actually had to say it.”

            “I am not a mind reader, Hiruma!”

            “No, I am not even fucking thinking about it,” he spat back. “You really don’t understand why I’m doing this, do you?”

            “No, I really, really don’t. Ms. Green said that if –”

            “Ah,” he muttered under his breath, “that bitch…”

            “Hiruma!” She turned to face him with a fierce glare. There were so many things she overlooked because somehow she could understand his reasons, but this was simply unjust. It called into question everything that was good about him. “Why would you call her that? She’s only trying to help you, even though you don’t appreciate it. She believes in you. Can’t you just respect that?”

            There was something unfamiliar about his eyes and the way he stepped back when he saw her face that gave her pause. It reminded her vaguely of fear, but fear was something she had never seen in him. Her anger faded as she tried to puzzle out his symptoms, but he was already recomposing his mask.

            “What did she tell you? It’s sort of my private business, don’t you think?”

            She tried to be gentle. “Have you ever thought that, maybe, that’s what the rest of us were thinking when you took over the entrance exam committee?”

            He didn’t reply. His eyes were seriously contemplating something in the distance, but when she looked in the same direction she saw nothing. They continued walking. Even now, long after the sun had set, the thick summer heat had only barely dropped. Still, it was a relief. It must have been so much hotter for the students who had started their summer holidays after the closing ceremony that day, going home under the sun at high noon. But for the Devil’s Cram School there were no holidays, and as always they stayed until the last light faded. It was always dark when they walked together. Over those countless nights she had come to decipher his moods through clues as fine as the muscles around his eyes or as blatant as his choice of weapon. She thought of the face she had seen briefly as they walked home on the first full day of his regime; the day her loathing had melted and she had learned his motives for involving the others in his ambition to become her manager. It appeared after she asked his third reason.

            “Tch. Do I need to say it?”

            “Yes. I would like it very much to hear it from you.”

            “The third reason is…because it’s more fun this way.”

            His smile that time lacked the usual cunning and mischief. Seeing something pure like that from him was so rare she forgot all the rude, selfish, distasteful things he had said and smiled with him.

            But he wasn’t smiling now. He was brooding. Now, months later, after managing the committee and pushing them to their limit, the end-of-term exams provided a measure that demonstrated his irrefutable success. Of course they were honors students who were used to being at the top of the rankings, but in their weakest subjects they had each reached personal records. Ishimaru had even scored fifth in his class and was nearly noticed by his professor. Anyone who doubted Hiruma, his methods or his abilities, had been proven wrong. But he wasn’t gloating, or firing cannons, or even smirking confidently now that the things he had believed all along had been confirmed. And now even that secret gleam of happiness she had caught before was gone. She drifted slightly behind as they walked to watch for clues in his somber expression. Their steps and cicadas were the only sound for a time until he finally spoke again.

            “Is there anything that you want?” The words were so soft she barely recognized his voice. She blinked in confusion, and he clarified. “From me, I mean. Is there anything… that you would like from me?”

            She nearly said her very first thought: _What more could I want?_ But she stopped. This chance might never come again. She willed herself to seriously consider the question.

            “Well…” she began slowly, “I would like if you stayed for dinner. Every night.” Saying it out loud sounded so bold she immediately tried to backtrack and justify it. “At least on weeknights. You need to eat properly. And I feel better when I know you have had a good meal. And Mama likes you. And… with the three of us… it feels like a real family.” She hoped it was too dark to see the blush that followed.

            She counted their steps. After the fifth, he responded.

            “Alright, done.”

            She looked at him carefully. His expression hadn’t changed. After a moment she ventured another request, this time more playful to distract him from whatever was troubling him. “I… I like when you wear your glasses. You could wear them more.”

            He cast a suspicious glance at her. “My glasses?”

            “The ones you were wearing that day… you look really good in them.”

            “Wh—” he cut himself short of inquiring further. “I only need them for reading. Just so you know.”

            “I see. I will bring you books with very small print and make you read them to me, when I want to see you wear them.”

            “Keh. Fine.” His faint hint of a smile counted as a triumph. She said a small prayer to whatever minor god had aided her in this. His voice was still strangely soft. “I’m not keeping score, but I notice you haven’t mentioned cream puffs yet. Seems like an important omission.”

            There was one more thing she had to ask for, that she couldn’t stop thinking of since this whole ordeal began. “What I want… from you… Hiruma Youichi… more than cream puffs…” she hesitated to step into dangerous territory, but hoped that her heart could reach him, “…is for you to follow your dreams.”

            As his feet stopped moving she stopped as well. Afraid to see his reaction she stared at the ground as she tried to explain. “That’s all I meant before, about studying in America. I guess I was wrong about that. But I don’t know what you really want. What are your dreams? —you don’t have to tell me. I just hope that when you can answer that question for yourself, you will do everything to reach them. And I hope you know that no matter where they take you, I will support you. To the very end.”

            She dared to face him then. His expression seemed to have hardened, staring at something—but more likely at nothing. That trace of a smile had vanished. She wondered if she would regret these indulgent requests. “All this, with the study group, it’s very nice… it’s wonderful, actually. But it’s a lot of time, it’s a lot of work for you. I can’t feel right if you are doing it only for me,” she said. “I never asked you to be my manager. I only wanted to walk with you, to be close to you, like this, because next year we won’t see each other anymore…” This was a thought she had a thousand times, but it had never made her throat close up before. He had said she didn’t owe him anything, and that he wasn’t keeping score, but it would be only right to return the question. “Is there anything you want from me, Hiruma?”

            She saw that unfamiliar quality in his eyes again and realized she was the one who was afraid. Her trust in herself and in him was pulled out from beneath her when she looked at his face and could not recognize him.

            “Yeah…” His answer hung in the air half-finished for a long time, so quiet it barely could be counted among things that were real. “I want to hold you.”

            The bolt that struck her heart seemed so deafening all her neighbors must have heard, but if Hiruma had he didn’t turn. After saying something like that, he still held his gaze carefully away from her. She couldn’t shake the significance of this. There was only one conclusion: he was truly afraid.

            She reached out for his hand. It flinched but when she caught it in her own he did not resist. She pulled his arm around her back and looked up at him, waiting. Finally, he looked back at her. Hesitating. Calculating something. In one movement, smooth and slow, he half knelt, bringing their faces closer until she realized his was below hers. Then both his arms were around her and she was being lifted off the ground. Though she clutched his neck tightly, half afraid he would drop her, he held her as easily as a child. But she wasn’t a child. The weight of her body pressed along the length of his chest, secure in his arms. The scent that she knew well, but faintly, enveloped her completely; the freshness of mint perfectly paired with the sharp, burnt earth smoke of gunpowder and sweat. Breathing—exhilarating breathing—consumed all her thoughts. She let her grasp relax around his shoulders as she gazed down at him.

            “Is… this… all?”

            “Yeah. This is good.”

            She traced the angles of his face with her fingers. “No… I think… there is still… something…” She placed her lips over his. Kissing had always seemed like a thing for someone else, until she had someone to kiss her back. She savored the feeling of being in his arms with no space between them and the tingle that ran through her from her fingertips to the depth of her spine. Yes, this was good. He tucked his face against her neck, still holding her a few feet above the ground. She whispered the name of a person she still had much to learn about. “Youichi...”

            His grasp around her tensed. She could feel his breath soft against her neck, but there was something else, too, wet on her skin that tickled as it ran along her collarbone. Such a tiny, terrifying thing. She cradled his head in her arms, stroking his hair as she would comfort a child. But he was not a child.

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I realize in high school classes are separated by academics, and there is no way Yukimitsu would be in the same class as Kurita. Whatever guys, enjoy the fiction!


	6. August

~*~

 

               “That’s great! You are doing great!” Kurita called to the corner of the field where Komusubi was leading the line training. He had brought a bottle of water for each of them, and some rice crackers as a snack. And yakisoba bread. And some melon buns. And some tea, just in case. 

               Kurita was enjoying being a third-year student, even if he wasn’t technically in the American football club anymore.  He still watched over them—without interfering, of course—but sometimes, if they asked, he would help them with practice.  He especially liked standing in for the dummies and letting the line members do their best to make him move. They were becoming stronger and stronger!  Even though it would be amazingly fun to be playing all the time, Kurita was just happy to see everyone.  Of course, he had attended all the games of the spring tournament. All the former Devil Bats members attended every match, even Musashi, although he sometimes only made it for halftime. Ever since he started attending school again, things almost felt like back in the old days.

               “Hurry your fat ass or we are going to be late!” Hiruma yelled as Kurita packed away the remaining snacks. Since summer vacation began, Hiruma had arranged for underlings to transport them to whatever construction site Musashi was working at for their now-mandatory lunch break. Kurita grabbed his bag filled with the coffee thermos and an approximation of lunch and rushed to the gates where a tiny truck was waiting.  This was worse than the motorbikes—there was no way he could fit inside!

               “Keh keh, we’ll ride in the back.” Hiruma took position with a rifle of some kind, half-perched on the cabin roof in a stance that suited a vigilante. Cerberus jumped up beside him. Kurita rested his back against the window, watching the road slip past the end of the truck bed. The wind that it created made the summer air feel cool. He wondered how far it would be. The further it was, the longer it would take to get there, and there would be less time for the three of them together. Although, being with Hiruma like this was nice, too. He was so busy now with the American exam group, he felt like he never saw him anymore. Which wasn’t true at all, since they were in the same classes and had lunch everyday. And Hiruma attended all the Devil Bats’ games, too. It wasn’t quite the same, not playing football together, but there were things he was starting to understand about life: nothing could ever be the same. Somehow it made him feel sad and happy at the same time.

               Usually their lunch breaks together filled him with happiness no matter how he felt in the morning, but ever since the term ended he couldn’t help feeling distracted. The day their exam marks were posted he hadn’t meant to look at Hiruma’s score, he had just glanced quickly, accidentally, and a line of numbers jumped at him: _98, 99, 99, 98, 100, 98, 99_... They made him remember something he had never really pushed from his mind. Hiruma’s dream of studying in America. Kurita clutched his bag to his chest. The truck screeched to a halt in front of a building covered in scaffolding where he spied a familiar man on the third level.

               “Hi!!!! Musashi!!! We’re here!!”

               Musashi grinned and set down the planks of wood he had been carrying. “Alright guys, let’s take lunch,” he called to the other workers, descending the scaffolding with expert movements.

               “It must be about time for summer training camp for the team,” he said as Kurita unpacked the contents of his bag on a spare wood plank.

               “That's right! They leave this weekend!  You won’t believe what they are doing!”

               Musashi raised an eyebrow. “Not the Death March…”

               “Kehkehkeh, no, it’s the Death Wall!”

               “You mean…”

               “They will be training in China!! It’s amazing, right?!”

               Musashi shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think they had it in them, to organize something like that on their own.”

               “Keh, they might have had some little elves helping behind the scenes.”

               Kurita poured the coffee, iced, into the plastic mugs he had brought, although proper glasses would have been more refreshing in this muggy weather. He placed a drink in front of each of them and made a pile with the snacks he had brought in the center of the makeshift table. Cerberus eyed the snacks until Hiruma emptied a family-size bag of chips on the ground nearby.  

               Kurita took one look at the gloomy dark liquid in his own mug and started rummaging through his bag in alarm. “Waahhh! I forgot the cream and the gum syrup!!!” he wailed. Coffee was so bitter. He wasn’t sure he could drink it without making it sweet and creamy first. But the three of them always drank coffee together at lunchtime! He looked desperately at Hiruma and Musashi, who were observing as his state of panic unfolded. With a determined stare he took the cup between his fingers and forced himself to take a tiny sip.

               “Bahh!!!” His mouth wrinkled at the burned black taste that caught in the back of his throat and he stuck out his tongue, but he didn’t actually spit it out.

               “Kehkehkeh, can’t handle the fucking truth, Fatty?”

               Kurita grabbed a rice cracker from the pile of snacks to chase away the taste. Musashi watched, amused. “Something sweet might work better.”

               “Ahh! Of course!” Kurita understood, grateful for the suggestion. “Like cake and coffee after dinner!” He was sure there was an individually-wrapped baum kuchen in the pile somewhere. “I just don’t know how you two can drink it like this, without anything. It’s really amazing.”

               “Keh, it’s because we are simple guys. We don’t have time for frills and lies.” Hiruma words were confident and cruel, as usual, but Kurita could tell from his posture and the angle of his pointed grin that he was really, truly content.

               Kurita forced himself to finish his black coffee by placing the little cake on his tongue before pouring the liquid over it.  It was surprisingly effective, creating a kind of mocha torte flavor. This could become his go-to method.  As the others were savoring their plain, straight drinks, he found his attention kept drifting to his bag. There was only one thing left inside. He had resolved to return it to its owner.  He wondered when the right moment would be. Also, he was afraid.

               “Is there a monster in that fucking bag, Fatty?” Apparently his nervous glances had not gone unnoticed by his sharp-eyed, sharp-toothed friend.  He wrung his hands. He wasn’t ready, but this was the moment.  With a deep breath he gathered his courage into the stance that he used as the fiercest line blocker in Kantou.  He reached in and pulled out the folder that he had rescued from the clubhouse trashcan. With both hands he held it out to Hiruma.

               “I was keeping it safe. In case you changed your mind. About your dreams…” Kurita smiled with encouragement, trying to push back his own sadness, “…you can definitely reach them! Hiruma!”

               Hiruma’s expression included no variation of his multipurpose grin: not sly, not cruel, not maniacal, nor pleased. For the briefest moment his face showed legitimate surprise before it was replaced with the sharp narrow glare of a scowl.

               “This—” he ripped the folder from Kurita’s hands. “Get it into your fat fucking fat ass skull, Fatty!!! I am not fucking studying in fucking America!  Don’t make me say it again!”

               Kurita didn’t reply except with a bewildered look. Hiruma really seemed furious about that little paper folder.

               “Let me make this perfectly clear. There are members of the Devil Bats who want to study in fucking America and their destinies belong to me.”  He shoved the folder in his bag, snatching up his rifle. “As for dreams-- the next person who mentions dreams in my hearing had better be hungry for bullets. Got it?!”

               With that Hiruma stalked away, leaving the other two in silence.

               “Musashi… He keeps saying that…”

               “Yeah.”

               “Which means, he’s definitely…”

               “Yeah, I know. He’s definitely going to do it.”

               Kurita looked at his empty hands. “What do we do?”

               “There’s only one thing we can do now. We have to pretend we don’t know.”

 

~*~

 

               By the time he entered the staffroom, most of the professors had conveniently realized they had to be somewhere else.  Only that foreign teacher remained at her desk, blissfully oblivious to the evacuation going on around her.  Hiruma cast a poisonous glare at the crack in the opposite doorway, where the more nosy of them still lurked, daring to satisfy their curiosity. The crack disappeared with a scurry.

               Ms. Green was marking writing assignments, surrounded by neat piles of notebooks. There were plenty of empty chairs but he leaned on the nearest desk, forming a bubble with his gum.  She glanced at him but continued her work, making corrections on the pages with a red marker.

 _“Good afternoon, Mr. Hiruma.”_ She seemed very pleased. _“Congratulations on this term. Everyone did very well. You should be proud._ ”

               Stating the obvious always struck him as an insult to his intelligence. Hiruma let the bubble pop and began chewing another.  Reaching the final page, she placed the notebook on the top of a stack and capped the pen. “ _How may I help you?_ ”

               He thought he had made his decision but he hesitated. The moment he spoke, his choice would change from a thought to a fact. Choosing was a cut, a cutting away of a part of himself. The ache of it was dull sometimes, sometimes sharp, but these kinds of cuts never seemed to heal. He let the folder fall on the desk. In the end there was no other choice but to choose.

_“Tell me my odds.”_

               She recognized it, of course, that unsolicited file. If she hadn’t interfered it might not have gotten to this point. If not for that file, if the fat ass had kept his nose out of it, if everyone had just shut up about America, he might have stopped imagining himself over there. He might have stayed content with his plans to take over Japanese college football. He never asked for that folder, but it would not leave him alone. She picked it up, studying each sheet carefully.

 _“Only three schools,”_ she observed, _“all in California, in the Bay area.”_ She looked at him with a troubled expression. _“I don’t understand.”_

_“I’m not asking you to fucking understand.”_

_“Please watch your language. I thought the best college teams were in the Midwest and the Southwest.”_

               This surprised him. _“So you know American football?”_

 _“Not really, but I know that much. You shouldn’t underestimate how much that sport is loved in America. Even people who don’t care about football end up knowing certain things.”_   She pulled another folder from the drawer of her desk, flipping through charts until she found the one she was looking for. _“Studying in America is a great opportunity for you and is completely within your reach. If you keep up these marks there are many schools that would be happy to accept you.”_

_“I fucking know that. I want to know my chances for these schools.”_

_“Were you raised by sailors? Honestly.”_ she sighed, checking his grade sheet again and making a note in the margin of his file. _“In your position, there are two options.  You can apply to the school based on your academics or you can apply for a sport scholarship.  Your chances depend on the competitiveness of the schools in each respect. Some of those Midwest colleges, though famous for their football teams, aren’t ranked very high for their academic program.  You might not stand a chance to get recruited with a sport scholarship, but if your marks stay like this you could be accepted through the academic stream. Do you understand what I am saying?”_

               He grated his teeth. He was not stupid, but he made a choice. The best teams in America—he had a chance to go to their schools. He could then make his way into their practices, by legitimate methods or otherwise. Part of him, almost pure instinct, craved this more than anything. The challenge. The top. But there was a price to be paid for his heart’s desire, and the cost was too steep. The cut was too deep. He would bleed and bleed and then he would die. _“Yeah, I get it.”_

_“There is another side to the coin. A sport scholarship can be a way to get access to a high-ranking school with a less glorious athletics program.  Coaches are primarily looking for skill on the field, but their recruits do still need to keep up in their studies.  From what I can understand, the expectation is for sports-stream applicants’ SAT scores to be about 80% of the college’s overall average. So—”_

_“--so grades are still a factor with a scholarship.”_ He anticipated her statement. _“Meaning they can also give me an advantage.”_

               She shrugged. _“Yes and no. On paper, technically, that might be true. It will be a factor they take into consideration. In practice, they want the best athletes. The more competitive schools will bend rules to get them and rig the system to keep them. Some schools even create dummy courses to keep their star athletes’ grades up without taking time out of their practice schedule to study.”_ He had read about this scandal, but couldn’t be sure how widespread it was. It seemed like the kind of solution he would have thought up himself.  But he took her meaning. Even at a school for intellectual prodigies, a guy with average physicality could be a genius and it wouldn’t mean a goddamn thing to the people pulling the strings, whose business was to stack the odds in their favor.    

 _“If your SAT scores are anything like your end-of-term grades, yes, it might improve your chances at a sport scholarship. It won’t do much if you are being out-competed in terms of athletics, but it might tip the scale. The schools you have chosen, they have some of the best university programs in the nation. Truly competitive, from an academic perspective…”_ She referred to the chart again, shaking her head. She was about to tell him something he already knew. _“…and their football teams are at the top of their region. For these schools, no matter which approach you take, your chances are very low. Almost zero.”_

_“But not zero.”_

_“Not quite zero.”_

               Those were the words he lived by, the words that woke the wild dogs in him. There was the slightest chance. His to seize. He smirked in anticipation, but the ache of the cut wouldn’t let him forget what he would have to give up. Those two bastards wanted him to go, they had said as much, but it wasn’t their choice to make.  Why was America so fucking far away?  

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yep, this was my tribute to my favourite scene where Hiruma and Musashi drink coffee black and Mamori needs to add sugar... x100 for Kurita xoxox


	7. September

~*~

 

            Anezaki was where she said she would be, at a grassy nook near a shed that had a view of the athletic grounds. She was leaning against the fence, watching the practice when he arrived. Her contented smile did not contradict the sadness in her eyes. Takekura Gen knew that feeling well. He was sure all the retired Devil Bats members felt something the same.

            “Do you always watch them at lunch?”

            She nodded. “I guess I can’t change, even after everything. Even when they were gone for summer training, I still came here. I still worried for Sena. I didn’t even know what they were doing, but I felt proud of them anyway.”

            It was a few moments before she added, “Also, I am afraid of forgetting.”

            Their eyes didn’t leave the field as silence fell between them. Sena’s passes had become sharper and faster since the Death Wall, just in time for his last autumn tournament. The team responded to him as though they were one. Nostalgia didn't usually affect Gen, but he could not ignore how fast the future was marching upon them. So much had happened since certain memories had been made. He closed his eyes for a moment to separate the past from the present.

            “It’s easier for me,” she seemed to respond to his mood, “because I am used to watching.”

            “I did my fair share of watching, too. Your work took speed and strength and technique. I just kicked a ball.”

            “Quickly and powerfully,” Anezaki smiled.

            “Heh, thanks. We are working on my technique.” Upon reflection he added, “In secret.” It might be trouble if she revealed that she knew to the wrong person at the wrong time.

            “I’m happy to know you are still practicing.”

            Gen couldn’t deny that he was happy too, but happiest of all was Kurita. His smile had been unbroken since their nightly training had begun. Hours under the floodlights, just the three of them, practicing late into the night. He wondered if Kurita had forgotten what they had concluded about Hiruma’s plans to study in America, or if he was just hiding it well.

            Being summer break, with the Devil Bats away on their Death Wall training and Hiruma busy with the cram school’s English boot camp, Kurita had been drifting aimlessly and so Gen had Takekura Construction take him on as temporary help. From a purely logistical perspective it certainly was helpful to have the strongest junior lineman in the region lending a hand on site, but it was also nice to have his huge cheerful friend around. This was how he knew the smile had been unbroken: he saw him day and night for most of the break and never caught it flicker. Maybe Kurita wanted to make the most of each moment while it lasted and had put his own sadness aside. Gen smiled. He was becoming stronger, that guy.

            But spending so much of the summer with Kurita only reminded him of how alone Hiruma would be, if he really went through with this. Hiruma was not very good at being alone. Already he seemed moodier and constantly tense, almost in anticipation of what his life would be on the other side of the ocean. The way he always swore about the time that was left when they were too sleep-deprived to practice any later suggested there was a countdown ticking away somewhere in his brain. Eventually they wouldn’t be able to watch him anymore. Eventually it would depend on Anezaki.

            Gen took a slow, deep breath. “He needs you,” he forced himself to say. Until that day, their mutual concern for Hiruma had gone unspoken. “Take care of him.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

            “Sena doesn’t need me anymore. He even makes his own lunch now.”

            “I didn’t mean Sena.”

            She pretended not hear him at first. When she replied it was almost an apology. “I know.”

            “I’m counting on you.”

            “How can you say that? I thought we were in this together.” Her voice was tense and she closed her eyes as if to gather her strength. He realized it then: she still didn’t know. Hiruma was hiding it from her, in plain sight, and she was oblivious.

            “This summer,” she asked quietly, “has he been different with you?”

            He couldn’t tell her about the folder. It wouldn't do any good. Instead he simply nodded. His response seemed to only shift her tension rather than relieve it. She glanced at him, as if unsure about sharing a secret. “I have been forcing him to eat supper at my place.”

            Gen thought he had noticed some slight improvement in that guy’s coloring and a marked decrease in convenience store packaging scattered around his apartment. That also explained why their night practices started so late.

            “That’s good,” he approved.

            “In my house, he never smiles,” she went on. “He never cackles or laughs. He doesn’t swear or make insults. All the tricks he uses to hide behind are gone, when he’s there.”

            He knew a side of Hiruma that matched that description, too, but she had only described what was missing. “And what is left?”

            It was a long time before she spoke. “He’s hurting, Musashi, and it’s not healing,” she said finally. There were many things that she hadn’t said but he heard in her words. That she had been trying so hard, that she didn’t know what to do, that she was afraid. That she was afraid _for_ him, that crazy man they both loved so much. There were many things he wanted to say, but he had never been so good with words and he didn’t approve of lying. He couldn’t tell her that there was a pain in Hiruma that was deeper and older than either of them. He couldn’t tell her not to worry, when he himself was doing little else.

            “That guy is strong,” Gen replied. It was as much a reminder for himself as for her. They couldn’t just ignore how much he had endured in the struggle to the Christmas Bowl. He was strong. But Anezaki’s composure seemed to crumble. Damn. He didn’t know what he would do if she started to cry. He tried to explain as simply as possible. In the same moment she replied with the same words but a very different tone.

            “You don’t know him like I do.”

 

~*~

 

            Hiruma heard the door slide closed, the light steps tap along on the path and the gate open, exactly on time. He shouldered his bag and took the toast from her without needing to look. Their routine was reliable. Still, he looked. Her hair was getting longer. That was a pointless thing to notice, but still, he noticed. She looked nearly as tired as he felt. He did not know exactly how late she worked after dinner, but she knew the facts as well as he did: there simply was not enough fucking time.

            The toast had disappeared. He glanced behind them incase he had dropped it, but the more likely scenario was he simply didn’t remember eating it. There were crumbs on his fingers, after all. He wiped them on the inside of his jacket before pulling a study guide from his bag. Quiz time.

            “ _The recommended daily calcium intake for a 20-year-old is 1,000 milligrams. One cup of milk contains 299 mg of calcium and one cup of juice contains 261 mg of calcium. Formulate the inequality that represents the possible number of cups of milk and cups of juice a 20-year-old could drink in a day to meet or exceed the recommended daily calcium intake from these drinks alone, where_ m _represents cups of milk and_ j _is cups of juice?_ ”

            Her stare suggested a mix of reactions, but he couldn’t be bothered to sort out what all of them were. Worried was one of the main ones, as usual. She was always worried lately. Tch. He was the manager, worrying was his job.

            And there was not enough fucking time.

            Even with the floodlights extending the day… they helped, but it wasn’t enough. The track star wasn’t making enough progress, and his own writing needed work. If hanging out at the American military base and reading every football magazine he could get his hands on had made him functionally fluent, writing essays was a completely different beast. He was getting better at practicing with the nerds without looking like he was taking it seriously, but it wasn’t enough. For the summer boot camp he had brought in every native English speaker he had any influence over. Well, not every one—he needed people who were not complete morons, obviously. The guys from the NASA team, whatever they were calling themselves now, were happy to oblige, and thanks to the magic of the internet he didn’t need to waste time entertaining them, as he would have if he had flown them in. It was incredibly useful, but he could not feel satisfied when he thought of that camp. It had been efficient but not very fun. That wasn’t the plan, but there was not enough time.

            “Well…?”

            “Well?” he repeated. Finish your sentences, woman!

            “Was I right? What’s the answer?”

            Ah, that. Shit. “Kehkehkeh you should know already!”

            She grabbed the book from him to check the answer key. “I swear, Hiruma…”

            “Tch, you never swear.”

            “I might start.”

            “Kehkehkeh!!”

            “You have to answer one now!”

            “Keh, fine.”

            He could save some time if he just grabbed supper from the convenience store instead of eating at her place, but she had asked and he had promised. He had thought he could keep it a business-like arrangement, but it wasn’t. No, there was no time for lies. That lady saw through him and it was a waste of strength to try to hide. At least she didn’t pretend to be his mother. She wasn’t stupid. He would give her that. So he had begun to imagine that house as a black box. A space of exception. No one needed to know what happened inside.

            At any rate, he could technically afford to indulge a few minutes on that addictive miso soup now that the scholarship applications were out of the way. He had sent off his tape and his stats, his statement of purpose and his letters of reference (which had involved a healthy bribe to ensure that drunk-ass coach kept his mouth shut about it after). So much bullshit, but it was part of the game. And that was just for the scholarships. The schools wanted his grades and the SAT results of course, but also some ridiculous essays. He had no idea what to write except lines and lines of curses. At least their deadline was much later, after the exams. All that was left for the scholarship applications was the interviews. He had a very bad feeling about them. Should he fake being a quasi-normal person? _Could_ he even pull it off? Would he hate himself for it? What he really wanted was to take the risk of showing himself. As is. Take it or leave it. If they didn’t want him because he was too crude, too unpredictable, too… just generally bad news, then screw them and their shitty team. But what reasonable coach would accept someone like him without some form of intimidation to compel them? Could he get some dirt on them? Could he leverage some information? These weren’t small-time high school principals, he was dealing with the coaches of renowned teams. There was probably tons of dirt on them, but he wouldn’t be the first one to try to use it…

            “Really, Hiruma, I didn’t even pick a hard one. Do you want me to repeat the question?”

            The looming question was what he would do about the fall tournament. Would he let the nerds off the hook for the Devil Bats games, as he had in the spring? He grated his teeth. The break might be good for them. It might even be essential to prevent them from burning out. Strategic. Maybe, but they needed that time. Tch. He corrected himself: _he_ was the one who needed the time. The tick-tock in the corner of his mind made it difficult to think clearly. There was an answer there somewhere, but it wasn’t pretty.

            Then there were the fucking brats. Their chances were dismal. He had managed to stoically observe the train wreck that the spring tournament had been, but this was the fall tournament. The stakes were completely different. How would he be able to just sit back and watch? Had he built this team only to have it come crashing down? Had he been fooling himself to believe in the foundations he had laid? Fucking hell.

            And constantly, always, there was that pain somewhere below his collarbone, in a space in his chest that had some unknown purpose—not his heart, which usefully pumped blood through his body, but somewhere around there, just above and behind it. It was the place that bore the ache of the cut, when he chose to abandon the people who mattered. He knew better than to hope that their night practices would help the pain. He had known from the start it would be twisting the knife in the wound, but that was part of the price for what time they had left. And he knew that he deserved it.

            “Hiruma?”

            They had come to the intersection where they parted ways to avoid being seen arriving at school together. Right on schedule, as always, like clockwork, but just in the split second before he turned to go she grabbed his fingers with her own. He grinned and didn’t grin. This little thing was not so bad. He liked that hands could speak. But if they were seen… it would be such a headache. That rumors about them had not grown into wildfire proportions was still a miracle, albeit one enforced by him under threat of death. And, realistically, only an idiot would think of him as a possible recipient for anything but fear. That was probably right. The fucking genius could be such a fool sometimes. The real miracle was that he still hadn’t completely fucked this up: the miracle was that there was still something to cover up.

            “Hiruma…” It was her worried, protective voice, the one that had become her default voice. He had to smile now, as convincingly as possible, to counter it. Even with that knife pang still twisting.

            “Kehkehkeh! Don’t be late for school! You better have finished your homework!”

            She held him with both her hands and her eyes. He didn’t want to be the one to break her grasp, but there really wasn’t time and she knew it. She could be so stubborn about things. If she didn’t let go… but, damn, those eyes… He examined her face closely, an eyebrow raised, suspicious. It was important to maintain the element of surprise. He was fairly sure if this was only a trick or a game he could beat back the feeling that threatened to drown him, that had choked him every other time. Her hair was out of place, so he pushed it from her face as if it were nothing, or something that annoyed him, but not a gesture of tenderness at all. No, that wasn’t what it was.

            And then he kissed her.

            It was supposed to be quick, playful, brief, but things didn’t go according to plan. It took up seconds that he had been counting on, but he couldn’t feel the ticking of the clock. She had always been the one to kiss him before. It had always been something given to him and all he had to do was take it. This was different. This must have been what giving was like. He distinctly remembered trying to bury the fear with courage. So, there was risk—but there was something else, too. When she melted a little under his touch, it felt the way winning felt. Her eyes were half closed, like a sleepy, content kitten, and her mouth was still right there. Was it okay to kiss someone twice? He ground his teeth, deliberating.

            “You’re going to be late,” she whispered, letting his fingers slip free.

            That was the correct answer. Such a very good girl, and a good manager. Unlike some people. Their lips connected again, for just a second this time instead of many seconds, but it was still longer than planned.

            “If you are late I will fucking kill you,” he grinned.

            She flashed him a cheeky scowl and turned to her route. He turned to his. The clock ticked and the cut ached, but quietly.

 

 

~*~

 


	8. October

~*~

 

           When classes ended that day, students on the third floor had long adjusted to life without club activities and had settled into their own patterns of how to spend their afterschool time. As Mamori made her way to the room where the Devil’s Cram School met, she passed some of them lingering and chatting before leaving to meet their study groups or to study alone at home, and others rushing off to loiter near the convenience store or go shopping with friends. A boy was standing near the cram school door when she arrived, staring at it with a look that seemed at once resolute and afraid. When he turned toward her a smile bloomed on his face.

           “Mamori-nee-san!”

           “Sena!” She beamed back at him. She hadn’t expected to see him here, in her world. Usually she met him downstairs to walk over to the clubhouse when lunch started, so he never came up to the third floor. “Are you ok? Did you forget something? Do you need anything?”

           “Ha ha! Err, kind of. Is this…” he pointed at the crude drawing of a skull and crossbones taped to the door, his voice dropping to a whisper, “…the Devil’s Cram School?”

           “Some people call it the American university entrance exam preparation committee,” she reminded him, bemused. “Or they used to, when they had time.”

           “Right, of course,” Sena chuckled. The sign didn’t seem to scare him as much anymore. “I never would have thought you would study in America, Mamonee.”

           “What do you mean?” She tilted her head slightly. It was strange to hear him have an opinion of any kind about her future.

           “I dunno, I thought you wanted to become a kindergarten teacher. I thought you’d study here and still be around. America is really far away.”

           “Sena, are you saying you are going to miss me?” she teased him, “I thought you had grown up and didn’t need me anymore.” She didn’t want to explain the difference between dreams that were soft and sweet and the ones that make your blood race. “I know it’s far, but you definitely have to visit. You can stay at my grandparents place with me, it’ll be great.”

           “It’s long time. What if you like it there more than here? What if you never come back?”

           “Sena… of course I will come back.” So quickly it had changed from a conversation she did not want to have to one she was simply unable to have, in the school hallway of all places. She summoned her most cheerful thoughts to erase the topic with a smile. “Congratulations on your win this weekend! The Devil Bats are on their way to the semi-finals again. The Devil’s Cram School is cheering for you, you know.”

           Sena responded with an embarrassed laugh. “Thanks. It’s been hard without you. And the others...” She could think of one particular person whose absence must have been felt more than all the rest put together.  Sena donned that determined expression again, reminding her how much he had grown and how many things had changed. “Mamonee, is Hiruma here?”

           She did not need to respond, as a shadow promptly enveloped them.

           “Kehkehkeh what have we here?” Hiruma’s fangs seemed longer and sharper than usual, his cheerful smile wider, pointier. He rotated his head in inhuman angles as he inspected the boy. “Do I recognize the captain of a team that is so untouchable they don’t need to train? No, there is no team like that around here.”

           Sena’s body seemed to brace for some unknown consequence.  “Hello, Hiruma...”

           “Fucking shrimp, you should be at practice. Bando is advancing, and they are a different team this year. You should have lost to them in the spring tournament. Are you ready to face them again?”

           Mamori felt her eyes lock on Sena’s face to study his reaction.  Hiruma had not attended any of the fall tournament games. Instead he had supervised extra study sessions for Ishimaru with an alternating roster of English-speaking ‘guest’ instructors. Hiruma had demanded a full report from her, of course. She imagined he watched a recording as well, or perhaps he even had the TV on during the study session.  But he wasn’t at the game.  When Sena had learned this, Mamori thought her heart was going to break. Like a good captain, he had tried not to let his reaction show. He had almost succeeded, but she knew Sena’s mannerisms too well. Where other people might have felt betrayed, Sena turned such a feeling on himself. It had hurt him in ways words couldn’t describe.  

           Now, finally face-to-face after all these weeks, Sena held his determined expression. “No. We’re not ready. That’s why I am here, Hiruma. To ask for your help.”

           “I told you already, this time you have to make it your own way. Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

           “I know. You are retired from the club. I’m not asking you as a club member. In one year I learned everything I know about being a quarterback from you. It wasn’t long enough. I’m still not good enough. You wanted me to learn on my own, and I did. I was alone for all the spring tournament, and the Death Wall, too. I still need training.”

           Mamori put a hand over her mouth to muffle the sharp breath she drew when his head swept down in a deep, straight bow. “Hiruma, please help me.”

           Hiruma scrutinized him as held the bow. The wait felt long but his answer was brief and final. “No.”

           She could see Sena flinch at that and felt an echo of it in her own muscles. He held the position, straightening, reframing the request. “When we needed to become stronger, before the Christmas Bowl, you brought in the best players in Kantou. That is why. I’m asking you because you are the best. Please, Hiruma.”

           “Forget it. And knock it off with the bowing, you aren’t a slave.” Hiruma dismissed him, turning to the door that would lead to the Devil’s cram school.

           “Hiruma, wait…” Mamori stepped ahead of him, blocking his path. “Why are you doing this?”

           “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear.”

           “And if they lose?”

           “Losing is a lesson of its own.”

           He tried to move around her to the entrance but she slid the door closed behind her and held it shut. “He came to you because he realizes he needs help. Whatever happened to learning from experts?”

           “The fucking shrimp doesn’t need you to fight for him anymore, remember?” His eyes had become as sharp as his teeth. He pressed a hand wide on the door just above her head to slide it open, but with her heel wedged against the bottom it wouldn’t budge.

           “Yes, and you don’t need me to fight for you either, very cool and talented and powerful Hiruma Youichi,” she stared back, aware that he was closer than was wise in the school hallway, but refusing to let something like that allow him to win, “but I’m fighting now so you will go play American football instead of rotting away in this study room, because I am worried to death what will happen to you if you stay locked in there.”

           The way his eyes got so big when they were usually slender gave the impression he was surprised, but he might have been toying with her so she would let her guard down. She kept her hand firmly pressed against the door handle with all her weight. Hiruma glanced back at Sena, still waiting in the hall. His expression seemed to soften and harden in the same beat. He soon recovered a proper frown and a scowl. “The SATs are in December. So is the Christmas Bowl. There is not enough fucking time.”

           “We’ll be fine. We’re the smartest, most driven students in the entire school and you’ve been training us for the better part of a year now. Don’t you trust us yet?”

           He stared at her so intently she began to worry there was something on her face. “Tch. You really have no idea, do you?”

           “Do you always need to be so cryptic? If there is something else just tell me.”

           “Keh…”

           She closed her eyes to collect her patience. “Go with Sena, at least for today. Please. Whatever it is, it can wait for one day.”

           She could tell he was weighing the factors and calculating outcomes in his mind. At the end he emerged a different person, the carefree, cackling kind, as though the previous conversation had never happened. “Kehkekeh fuckin’ shrimp, why aren’t you changed yet?”

           Watching them walk away she felt relief mixed with that warm feeling she got when protecting someone she loved. Well, she wasn’t exactly protecting them, but who did she love more than those two?  Her smile and the feeling grew when she saw Hiruma’s hands flash signals over his shoulder.

 _Don’t start dinner without me._  

 

~*~

 

               There were moments when curiosity got the better of them and overpowered their reasonable instinct of fear. For example, when they saw Hiruma arrive with a box, the clues on his face suggested they would be wise to start running away immediately without any need to learn its contents. But curiosity could be a powerful force, so they crowded around the desk as he up-ended the box. It was not terror that they felt, but surprise and confusion as dozens, possibly even hundreds of packs of sugarless gum spilled across the desk.

               “Um, okaaay.”

           “Euh… why…?”

               “Hmm… Halloween?”

           Hiruma dropped into the chair, kicking his heels up on the edge of the desk and draping an assault rifle over his shoulder. “Divide them up between you. Even portions. Go.”

           They stared at him. He hadn’t called them any derisive names or even sworn. Hesitantly, Yukimitsu reached toward a pack of gum and touched it. Nothing happened. He slid it across the desk in front of Tanaka, standing to his left. The others glanced around. Their apprehension faded as no obvious consequences emerged, and one by one they began picking up the packs and distributing them among their peers. Yukimitsu moved some grape-flavored gum in front of Aihara.

           “Oh, thank you very much,” she smiled, “but I don’t really like grape. Will you trade with me for watermelon?”

           All the cram school members jumped a foot in the air as a barrage of gunfire answered her.

           “Even numbers of every flavor. No exceptions.” Hiruma glared.  The grape gum was returned to its place in Aihara’s portion.  

           There were no more mistakes after that.  In the end they each faced their own piles of gum, neatly stacked by flavor. Silently they waited for further instructions.

           “What is the purpose of this?” Hiruma asked. At this point they barely dared to consult in their groups, but they were certain they were expected to answer. They leaned in close to discuss in whispers.

           “It has to do with studying…”

           “Yeah, but what…?”

           “Maybe to keep us quiet?”

           “Maybe to improve our breath so we don’t have to waste time brushing our teeth?”

           “Probably not, but he might like that idea. Let’s go with it.”

           That was not necessary, however, as a very awkward boy was waving one of his long limbs over his head anxiously.  Hiruma did not deny him the chance to answer.

           “Ah! So! There is a bunch of research recently that suggests—oh, coming out of experimental behavioral psychology—that chewing gum can improve memory! Is that it?!”

           “Kehkehkeh, fucking reliable spider.”

           The others were surprised and a little excited. “How does that even work?”

           The boy-called-spider was happy to explain. “The mechanisms aren’t clear, but there are a couple theories. Some researchers believe the chewing motion promotes insulin production, which improves cellular functions and so maybe neuro-functions. Some think it improves concentration. Others believe it is more a function of context-specific effects or sensory conditioning. It’s pretty well established with scent but studying taste is a little new – they call it Proustian phenomenon.  So, like, the flavor of gum reminds you of the memory of when you tasted it before and so if you were chewing it when you were studying, it should remind you what you learned.” 

           “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…. so that’s why we need the different flavors! One for each exam subject!”

           But it was Tanaka who was cynical this time. “I’m sorry, but this is highly questionable.”

           “Unlike electrocution…?” Ono muttered under his breath.

           “There has been a ‘bunch of research’ on the impact of chewing gum on learning and memory, yes. However, the results are inconclusive. Most of the experiments were not able to reproduce the results. Most attempts saw no difference between people who chewed gum and those who didn’t. Stupid internet media simply blew the two studies that found positive results completely out of proportion.”

           Hiruma eyed him with what might have been disinterest, but it had a sharper edge. Then he turned to the others. “So, do you want to test this theory?”

           “It is also against the rules to chew gum in school!” Tanaka added quickly. This information was factual but useless, he knew well, but someone had to say it. In any other situation with a group of honors students, invoking the rules should have ended the discussion. And yet this time it may have done more to elicit the cheer that followed than any of the earlier comments.

           “I’m sure the discipline committee will overlook that for this important academic research.”

           Mamori’s face suggested a range of exasperation and resignation. “Just…. Please, don’t stick it to the desks.”

           Hiruma bit into a stick of gum. “Grape is math. Now get to work.”

           They broke into their groups, readying themselves for a combative quadratic equation relay game. This was followed by essay peer review and a change in gum flavor.

           Yukimitsu exchanged his paper with Tanaka.  He read through the first page without needing to make any corrections. On the second page he changed a comma to a period and traced a capital letter at the beginning of the new sentence. Tanaka, on the other hand, seemed distracted.

           “What do you think our manager wants to be when he grows up?”

           “You mean Hiruma?”

           At the name, Tanaka abruptly focused his attention on the paper, as if afraid of being caught daydreaming. “Yeah. He seems to like behavioral psychology. He’d be good at it, don’t you think?”

           “I think he’d be a good lawyer…” Moriyama whispered over his shoulder from the desk behind him.

           Ono yawned from the other side, “Uhh, yeah or snake oil salesman.”

           Yukimitsu looked at Hiruma, still leaning back in his chair while typing something on his laptop with a bored expression but sharp strikes on the keys.

           “Well, he would be good at a lot of things, but only if…” Yukimitsu trailed off as Hiruma shot him a glance from across the room.

           “Only if what?” Tanaka prompted him.

           “You’re too noisy, fucking factchecker.”

           Tanaka thought he noticed a mistake in Yukimitsu’s paper. He grabbed a dictionary and buried his face in it to check the spelling.  “If what?” he murmured from behind the pages.

           Yukimitsu hesitated, but Moriyama was poking his shoulder with the end of her pencil and he was fairly confident she would not stop until he answered. Hiruma was ignoring them now, or pretending to. Yukimitsu risked slipping a low voice under the cover of Tanaka’s essay. “Hiruma is good at anything if he thinks it is useful or fun. That’s all I meant.”

           The others looked at him quizzically. “What if it is both useful and fun?”

           Yukimitsu smiled. “That’s when he is a complete genius.”

           Those days Hiruma left them an hour before the cram school ended.  He did not say where he was going but they didn’t have to wonder long. Gunshots and yelling and wild laughter could be heard from the field where the Devil Bats practiced.

           “He’s cheating on us with them,” Moriyama muttered, blowing a bubble of peach gum as she gazed at the practice through the window.

           “No, that’s not it.” Yukimitsu didn’t think she meant it, but he felt it was his duty to correct such a claim. “He’s been cheating on them with us this whole time.”

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I struggled with where to situate them within the timeline of the chewing gum research. The media interest around the context-effects of chewing gum on memory and cognition seemed to emerge around 2004, but Tanaka-kun is referring to a review of the literature from 2012 which compares these and later studies.
> 
> However, as we know Eyeshield was released in 2002, and its historical context plays a role in the story, especially in the way technology is deployed (I am thinking of Kurita’s attempt to reproduce their recruitment techniques in college). Would research from 2008 be available to them at this point (less than two years since the start of the series!)? Would they as high school students have access to peer-reviewed journals, in English, at all? So many questions... 
> 
> In the end I imagined you are not reading for the historical accuracy of the scientific information these fictional characters had access to.
> 
> The literature review with references to earlier studies:  
> Lara Tucha and Janneke Koerts, “Gum Chewing and Cognition: An Overview,” Neuroscience & Medicine 3, no. 3 (2012): 243–50, [doi:10.4236/nm.2012.33028](http://dx.doi.org/10.4236/nm.2012.33028). 
> 
> [Spoiler alert: there are only two studies out of a total of six that suggest chewing gum can aid memory or learning.]


	9. November

~*~

 

            Did California have fall colors? Did California have seasons? Such thoughts passed through her mind without affecting the feeling of contentment that saturated her as she lay in the grass. The perfect coolness of the air, the perfect blue of the sky, the perfect leaves in their colors should have all been hard to bear in full knowledge that this would be her last autumn in Japan.

            “Catch MAAAAAX!” A shout from the field drifted to her otherwise peaceful corner. Her smile doubled in size and she giggled at the particular forms of performance that persisted even as the boys were supposedly maturing. She could picture Monta’s enthusiastic stance without looking.

            “Tch. Laughing at the monkey, eh? If he knew, he’d be out of commission for the rest of the season.” He had to bring negativity into her special place, but words couldn’t touch her perfect state of mind.

            “I’m not laughing at him.” She looked toward Hiruma, leaning on the fence. She had to squint a little against the angle of the sun. As usual, so confident, so beautiful, even if all the early mornings and late nights seemed to have worn at him. Still, something was missing. She slipped a hand in her jacket pocket and held a stick of gum up to him at the tips of her fingers. It was his usual flavor, not one of the study flavors. It was the break, after all.

            “Thanks, Mom.” His smile was a little bit greedy as he leaned to grab it, but a thank you was a thank you.

            “You are welcome,” she replied as if to demonstrating manners to a child. “It’s lunch. Where are Kurita and Musashi?”

            “I sent them on an assignment. It’s a special one-time thing.”

            “I hope you did the dishes.” She could just picture the coffee cups cluttering the clubhouse. When she stole a glance at him he avoided her eyes. Guilty. Of course. She sighed, but her thoughts turned back to the crisp autumn air and the feeling of it in her lungs. It was perfect. “How did you know I was here?”

            “Tch. I know things,” he replied simply, watching the passes fly. “It’s quiet here.”

            “Are you sure you aren’t tired of being around me?”

            He formed a bubble. “Do you want me to leave?”

            She shook her head, eyes half-closed with a dreamy smile. As it often did, the sound of the practice lulled her to the edges of sleep. Maybe that was why she wasn’t alarmed when he settled beside her in the grass, arms folded behind his head. Or maybe it was because she knew they were out of sight of all the eyes that made judgments and spread rumors. Here they were free to do absolutely nothing together in peace. She had not thought that nothing could be so perfect.

            It was hard to tell how much time had passed before the drowsiness wore away. She had only closed her eyes a moment, but had it been a long moment or a short one? She stretched a little, turning onto her stomach where the view was much better. Hiruma seemed to be napping, too, eyes closed with his breathing soft and shallow. Leaves from the huge yellow ginko tree at the end of the fence had fallen in his hair, camouflaged there as though they were part of him. Everyone had been wrong: he wasn’t a demon, he was a little tree spirit or forest elf. She bit back the laugh that pressed against her lips as she imagined how very much he would hate that image.

            Without opening his eyes he must have felt her gaze. “Are you sure you aren’t tired of objectifying me?”

            “Do you want me to stop?”

            “I was just checking if you were tired. Don’t you have some very small print for me to read or something?”

            By then she knew well that teasing and joking were one and the same to him, so she laughed instead of blushing. If she had only brought a book with her, that would have been the perfect response. She sat up and patted her pockets to check if any flashcards had followed her outside, but her hand froze against a crisp, flat square of folded papers. She glanced at him to see if he had noticed. He was peering at her with narrow, suspicious eyes.

            “You’ve got something other than gum in there?”

            She did not reply.

            “Something you don’t want me to see?”

            She did not reply.

            “Hmm… it’s not a surprise.”

            She did not reply.

            The corners of his mouth crept up. He reached in his own jacket pocket and produced the infamous glasses, slipping them on carefully. “Hand it over.”

            She wondered why she had voluntarily divulged her weakness to this person when she knew he would not hesitate to use it against her. She felt her hand move against her intentions, pulling out the folded packet. At any moment she expected him to snatch it away, but instead he waited for her to place it in his own outstretched hand. Something about that gesture melted her resistance, just a tiny bit.

            “Please be gentle with me,” she delivered the feeble instructions with the papers as she handed them over. As he unfolded them she inhaled deeply and willed herself to relax.

            “ ‘ _What a girl learned from joining a boy’s sports team,’_ ” he read in English with surprising fluency. “What is this crap?”

            “It’s not crap, it’s the essay for my university application,” she informed him, completely rejecting his knee-jerk evaluation. She probably should smack him over the head for being such a crass jerk. “The topic is ‘Something that changed you’. At least wait until you have read the whole thing before you decide if it is crap or not.”

            “I won’t hold back, you know.” His words were harsh but hidden in the warning was an offer. In this pause she could snatch the papers from his hand and run. It was a chance to take back what he had coerced from her.

            “It’s fine,” she replied, folding her hands on her knees. “I need the feedback. The essay is crucial. It’s the best chance I’ve got to stand out against everyone who is applying with the same SAT scores and cumulative averages as me. It could be the difference.”

            He grinned that very-pleased-grin. “Kehkehkeh, maybe you don’t need a manager after all.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Are you going to read it?”

            “Tch. Calm down. Ahem:

_“ ‘ What a girl learned from joining a boy’s sports team._

_“ ‘I have always been at the top of my class, but being a member of my high school’s American football team taught me more than all my studies. It was on the Amefuto team that’–_ Yeah, I don’t think they will know what Amefuto is.”

            “Well, it’s a lot shorter to write.”

            “Just ‘ _football_ ’ is fine, it’s gonna be an American reading this anyway. There is only one kind of football to them.”

            “Good point.”

            “ ‘ _It was on the football team that I changed, both my thinking and my actions. I joined the team because I wanted to protect my childhood friend, Sena. I wasn’t thinking about what I brought to it or what I would get from it. At that time I believed in the limits of a person. When I looked at Sena it was easy for me to see his limits and I put myself between him and everything that might push them. I wouldn’t let him be hurt, but it also meant I wouldn’t let him to grow._

_“ ‘But the football team didn’t believe in limits. The founding members audaciously declared their goals’—_ Damn, that is a good word. _Audaciously!_ ”

            She stared at him. “Do you even know what it means?”

            He looked taken aback. “Of course. It is on the vocab list of the one thousand most likely words to be found on the exams that we have been drilling for months. I prefer my own translation of ‘without giving a fuck what anyone says or thinks’.”

            She was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes. Laughter won.

_“ ‘Without giving a fuck what anyone said or thought, the founding members AUDACIOUSLY declared their goals, vowing to win the regional tournament before they even assembled a full roster. Then they worked, they got hurt, they grew and they overcame it all. Through this team I learned that when it comes to abilities, we cannot put faith in limits. Science tells us limits must exist, but they are unknown until that moment they are tested. Even then, the results are not fixed. Limits can be pushed and changed. This is how I learned to believe in dreams that seem impossible. If what is possible is defined by limits, and limits are unreliable, what is impossible is called into question. Consequently, I started to believe in things I had dreamed of when I was too foolish to know better._

_“ ‘As a child I dreamed of attending the school near my grandparents’ home in California. That school was named Stanford. It entered my memory as a place we visited once, strange foreign buildings with huge lawns and palm trees. I learned it was the best place for learning. It had twenty-three libraries!’—_ Kehkehkeh, you are really such a gigantic nerd.”

            “Here I thought you knew me,” she gave him a wry smile.

            “ ‘ _I imagined a world where everyone loved learning more than anything else, and I knew that was the place I belonged. After I returned to Japan, when I did homework and studied for my exams I would imagine myself there, in a library at Stanford surrounded by people who came from everywhere in the world to learn from the best together. It filled me with energy that became fuel for my studies and put me at the top of my classes. I worked harder than was really necessary simply because I loved that feeling. I didn’t realize it then, but that dream helped me redefine my limits._

_“ ‘It was in high school that facts dismantled dreams. As my teachers helped me plan my future, they wouldn’t let me forget how impossible it was to get into a school like that, and I was smart enough to understand my chances. By then I believed faithfully in my limits. Soon I learned to have different dreams, ones that were realistic. Dreams I could easily achieve without getting hurt, but wouldn’t help me grow._

_“ ‘Then the Deimon Devil Bats won the Christmas Bowl and proved that impossible dreams were possible. This was not due to magic or luck. It was hard work in defiance of odds, and trust. Individually, everyone pushed their abilities beyond their notions of limits then combined them with the strength of the powerful trust of true teammates. Together they made new definitions of possibility. They brought new realities into being, because they fought for a dream in spite of all common sense understandings of what was possible. They’--_ …” He broke off, scanning the page silently.

            “What is it? It’s too wordy, right? I’m sort of repeating myself. It’s hard to explain…”

            His expression was troubled. “You keep using ‘ _they_ ’.”

            “Right, it’s the third person plural pronoun. You think it’s wrong? Should I change it?”

            His stare bore a hole into her and she felt a knot sink in her stomach.

            “What is it?”

            Leaves dropped from his hair as he sat up, removing his glasses, and shoved the papers back toward her.

            “Hiruma…” she begged quietly. For a moment it seemed he was about to speak, but instead he stood. Her fingers curled around the sheets of her half-read essay and the ginko leaves in the grass. The air was too cold. Did California have ginko trees?

            “Special delivery!” Kurita was practically singing as he skipped toward them, Musashi not far behind. Plastic bags hung from the huge boy’s arms and in his hands he held a box. He slowed and turned as Hiruma passed him, his cheerfulness fading. “Hiruma…?”

            “You know I don’t eat that sugary crap,” Hiruma muttered as he kept walking.

            Mamori had been too distracted by the sudden change of his mood to notice the familiar box. “Kariya!?”

            “Yeah!” Kurita’s enthusiasm bubbled up again. “Let’s enjoy them right away, before lunch ends!”

            He began unpacking his cargo as Hiruma walked further away. Musashi lingered at a distance, watching. There must have been dozens of creampuffs.

            “Hiruma sent you…” Mamori remembered what he had said before. By then he had disappeared from view.

            Kurita had already stuffed one in his mouth and had picked up another. “Mhmm! He said you study so hard you stopped eating snacks.”

            “That can’t be right...” She looked to Musashi for an explanation. “Hiruma wouldn’t do something like this.”

            Musashi shrugged. “If you are wondering if we put him up to it, I wouldn’t say that. Though it’s true Kurita strongly supported the idea once it was on the table.”

            “But he didn’t want the others to find out, so it had to be here,” Kurita elaborated between bites.

            Mamori stared at the pastries. They were her favorite food and he knew she loved them, but he had never given anything without a price attached. “Why? What does he want?”

            “I don’t think he wants anything, except to make you happy.”

            “Musashi, you know him!” She couldn’t believe something so farfetched. “Do you have any memory of him ever doing anything like this? Just to make someone happy?”

            Musashi replied simply, “Maybe he’s changing.”

            She picked up a cream puff, examining it for traps. Then she took a tiny bite. The light, sweet flavor of the cream was better than she remembered. And then there was the knowledge that this cream puff was a gift. The thought transformed when it reached her eyes and before she realized it, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She wiped them away furiously with the back of her hand. This wasn’t something to cry about. It was really a wonderful thing. Hiruma had done something special for her birthday.

 

~*~

 

            Kurita was in the clubhouse, cleaning. It wasn’t really that messy, but he hadn’t wanted to leave quite yet so he had started tidying up. Then it was only right to sweep, and after that he thought he might as well mop. He wasn’t sure the last time it had been done, if ever, since Mamori retired. When he stepped outside to take out the trash, Hiruma still had not come in to change, even though the rest of the team had left long ago. This wasn’t normal. Usually he would change and disappear for a while before the three of them met again for their own secret practice. It was dark already, but the floodlights were still off. Kurita felt along the wall to find his way to the incinerator while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could hear the familiar sound of Hiruma on the field, but as he recognized it his heart sank. Instead of heading back inside he lingered a moment, watching. He just wanted to be sure.

            It wouldn’t be right to say Hiruma was working on his pass. He was just throwing. Throwing fast and hard with every shred of energy he had, until there was nothing left to throw. Then he would do it again. This was the way he had been when Musashi left. Kurita was thankful it was so dark. He didn’t want to see his face.

            Kurita jumped as the lights flickered on, washing the field in a gentle light. He ducked behind the corner of the clubhouse, praying Hiruma didn’t notice he had been watching, but when he peeked back at the field Hiruma was still squinting against the glare of the lights. He was saved!

            A girl’s voice said, “I waited at the corner but you didn’t come.”

            It was Mamori. She must have been the one who turned on the lights. She was probably trying to be nice, but if Hiruma had not turned them on it was for a reason. Hiruma always had a reason for things.

            Hiruma didn’t reply, but wiped his face on his sleeve. It was a strange movement. It was too close to his eyes. He turned away from her to pick up the nearest ball. Mamori didn’t say anything, either. Maybe she wanted him to say something first, but he didn’t. Instead, from the other end of the field he aimed for the empty crate where the footballs were stored, and each shot swished in like an oversized game of basketball. Even so, his arms moved with a frustrated energy; it was not his smooth, confident pass at all.

            “I wanted to thank you for the cream puffs,” she said finally, giving in to the waiting match.

            “Tch. It wasn’t me. It was the fat ass,” he muttered as he hurled another ball.

            “You don’t have to lie.” It was strange. Usually Mamori argued with Hiruma when she didn’t agree with him. This was different. It was gentler than her kindest voice. “It made me happy that you thought to do that for me.”

            Even though she said she was happy, she sounded a little sad. It shouldn’t make sense, but Kurita thought he understood. He had felt that way a lot this year. He was starting to get better at smiling instead of crying.

            Hiruma only looked at her, tired and gloomy and impossible to read. Then he resumed sending the footballs back to their box. Though each shot went in, the crate was beginning to get full and the balls bounced off the others erratically, some escaping onto the dirt of the field.

            “You didn’t finish my essay.” Mamori pulled some papers from her pocket and unfolded them. “I really don’t think you can judge it until you hear the whole thing. It took a long time to write.”

            Having cleaned the field, Hiruma returned to the opposite end. That was the side where Mamori was standing, but he did not look at her. Instead, he began firing the balls back to the place he had just collected them.

            Mamori started reading, but the words were in English and Kurita could not understand most of it. He could only listen to the tone of her voice gliding over the sounds, snagging on the more difficult terms, with a measured pace that was smooth and strong but still a little sad.  

            “ ‘ _Together they made new definitions of possibility. They brought new realities into being, because they fought for a dream in spite of all common sense understandings of what was possible. They each had different abilities and they were each weak in ways they could not change, but it did not matter when they put their faith in each other and combined their strengths._

_“ ‘ There is no rule that says football is a boy’s sport, but I am a girl who does not want to be a football player. It was a coincidence that they needed a manager and I wanted to help my friend succeed in his first club. That is how I became a member of the American football team. I helped in the ways I could, the most typical of things that society expects of girls, but these also happened to be the things I am good at and enjoy. I knew that my abilities supported the team by allowing the boys to focus on their particular tasks, and it gave me a good feeling._

_“ ‘ As the manager, I also learned new skills. I learned the rules and strategies. I learned to analyze plays. I calculated situations that might appear on a physics exam, but in my head from the bench while the clock was running. I invented sign language to communicate without using up timeouts. All of these things were small ways being part of the football team changed me._

_“ ‘ There was one more thing I learned. It was the hardest thing of all, and it was the thing that changed me the most. I learned to put my own desires aside. I had to stop trying to protect them from being hurt. I thought protecting someone was the way to show you cared for them, but I learned to see this was selfish. The reason I needed to protect them was because I was hurt when they were hurt, but this would only keep them weak. That was before I learned how it felt to be proud of them when they grew. That was an incredible feeling, much better than believing they were safe. Still, I had to force myself to stop protecting them. It hurt me so much, to let them do things I knew to be risky. It hurt so much to watch them struggle. I had to trust that they would not break. In the end it was worth it to see the amazing people they became._

_“ ‘ In conclusion, the American football team changed the way I think about what is possible. It made me willing to risk failure for a dream that seems impossible, because I know I will become even stronger through the pain of chasing that dream. It showed me that many people working together with all their passion can create something completely unexpected. It taught me to trust in others, and to treasure the people they will become one day. Now when I imagine myself in a library in Stanford, I am not surrounded by people who love learning, I am working with them, creating something the world has never imagined possible before. ’ ”_

            As Mamori read from the paper, Hiruma flung the footballs back to the other side again. It was maybe a tiny bit slower than the pace from earlier, but the energy behind the throws was still raw. By the time she finished the box was empty and there were no balls left, not even the ones that had escaped onto the ground. Mamori seemed to be expecting him to reply. Kurita knew that Hiruma could understand English, but if he could understand all that he was really amazing. But Hiruma didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move. Mamori folded the papers up again. Then she walked onto the field. Kurita held his breath.

            “As my manager, it is your duty to review this,” she said, holding the paper packet out to him. “I will expect your comments by Monday.”

            Hiruma was looking at her, but the floodlights shone bright on his hair and obscured his face. She inched the packet closer and closer to his hand until he was holding it without having taken it. His fingers barely closed around it. Mamori studied him with a worried look for a time, but there was no change. Then she slipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out something that glinted like silver in the hard lights. She took his other hand and placed the shiny thing in it.

            “I’ll leave your supper out. Whenever you finished tonight, please eat it. At least eat something.”

            Even though her voice was soft it carried across the grounds on the crisp night air. Kurita thought he could hear every word clearly, but he couldn’t believe them. Because. That meant—it could only mean—the thing in Hiruma’s hand was a key. Anyway, that was impossible. So he must have heard wrong. But her hand was still on his hand, much longer than it needed to be. They were looking at each other longer than people normally did.

            “I am looking forward to seeing the person you will become someday, clever and cunning and cool and kind Hiruma Youichi.”

            Kurita had never thought of that before, but now that she had said it he furiously agreed. Nothing stays the same. Hiruma would change. How could he become better than he already was? Kurita couldn’t imagine it, but he couldn’t wait to meet the future Hiruma. He would definitely come back. Someday.

            It was a moment before Hiruma replied. His voice was strange, like his throat wasn’t working. “You forgot ‘crazy’.”

            Mamori took his face between her hands and stared at him intently. “You are not crazy,” she said firmly.

            “Are you stupid?” He managed to breathe the words. It was too feeble to be one of Hiruma’s usual taunts. Kurita closed his eyes tight. Hiruma was reliable. Hiruma was strong. Hiruma got angry. Hiruma kicked things. Hiruma didn’t unravel. He wasn’t supposed to see this. He wished he hadn’t seen it.

            “No, you idiot.” Mamori’s reply cracked with sadness. Her voice was muffled like she was speaking into something. “I am a fucking genius, remember? And I have the best fucking manager in the world.”

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll straight up confess that this is my favourite chapter (maybe because it is the nerdiest chapter?)
> 
> Next chapter is December. You know what that means...!


	10. December

~*~

            On the day of the SATs, the Devil’s Cram School met earlier than they had ever met before. After they finished running laps under the floodlights on setting #4, they showered and changed into their freshly pressed uniforms, and very skittish members of the home economics club served them breakfast. Mamori turned, ready to launch into an argument to liberate the students from servitude, but Hiruma was nowhere to be found. Only when it was time to leave for the train did he appear, all in black, taking the role of manager to cosplay levels. He carried a briefcase with their files and a small flag like a tour guide leader, while on his face he wore the most innocent of his maniacal smiles and his reading glasses. As they travelled to the international school where the exams were being held, Mamori willed herself not to stare or steal glances. Of course he couldn’t resist dressing up, and no detail could be sacrificed, even if it meant distracting her on the day she needed to focus more than any other. She felt her cheeks burning with all manner of frustration.

            As they followed him through the campus gates, a great cheer went up. “Deimon! Fight! Yaa!!” A girl in rollerblades led the chant, with the entire Devil Bats roster in attendance. “Yukki!! Fight! Mamonee!! Fight! Tetchan!! Fight! Fight! Fight! Do your best! Yaa! Haaa!!”

            Monta waved a foam hand with a finger pointed at the sky. “You can do it, Mamori-sempai!”

            “Mamori-nee-chan!” Sena cupped his hands to holler. “OFFENSE!”

            “Sena! Everyone! You came…!” Mamori had not felt this much love since she back when was still their manager. The cheers had attracted stares from the other students, but she didn’t care. She was now lacking nothing that gave her power. All the pieces had been assembled.

            The predominantly male cheerleading squad was broken up by a stronger force, however. “Get back to practice you stupid pieces of shit!!!!” Hiruma opened fire on them. “The Kantou finals are tonight for fuckssake!!!!!” As they scattered, Mamori noticed he was smiling. It was impossible to tell if he was simply pleased with them or if he had masterminded the entire thing.

            Outside the main doors he called the American university entrance exam preparation committee into a huddle.

            “Deimon! What are we going to do to these exams?!”

            Each drew in their deepest breath. Students approaching the entrance jumped as the group shouted: “DE - STROY – THEM !!! YAAAHHHAAA!!!”

            Hiruma smirked with approval. “Kehkehkeh, fly my pretties!!”

            He presented them at the registration table. Each received a number and entered the gymnasium to find their assigned seat. Mamori hesitated before the doorway, clutching a card that read ‘7’ and a stick of watermelon gum. In her chest, a tightness quivered and pulled at her lungs. There was nothing more she could have done to prepare. They had worked so hard for so long, with their fullest dedication. It was all for this moment, when they would show the proof.

            “I would be rather disappointed if you backed out now, fucking genius,” a voice drifted from the hall behind her. “Your grandparents would be sad, too.”

            Her dream to go to Stanford, that impossible dream that she dared to believe in because he had said it out loud so many times. She needed a perfect score, or as near as possible, to have a chance at that dream. If something went wrong that day, all that investment in her would have been wasted. She watched as the others entered the room and took their seats. She couldn’t imagine what this year would have been without them, just an isolated year alone with books. They fought together to get to this point, supported each other with their skills and their passion. With this exam she would prove to everyone not only what she was made of, but also the strength of the Devil’s Cram School. When she walked through the doors of that university, their fighting spirits would be with her. The number card insisted on shaking. _When_ , not if. When.

            “I thought you would be the one whose mind would change,” she replied. He was leaning against the wall of the corridor with a bubble looming in front of his face. Even though he had denied it so often, some part of her had believed at the last minute he would surprise everyone. “I really thought… it’s a such waste.” She sighed and smiled and inclined her head ever so slightly. “Thank you, Hiruma-kun, for everything.”

            “Keh. Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you taste the handmade bento we will be enjoying between the math and reading exams.”

            “Y-you cooked?” She gaped at him in disbelief.

            Hiruma moved as if to kick her. “Are you stupid? I forced the cooking club to do it! Now go take that bloody exam before I completely lose my shit!!!”

            Inside the auditorium, the students shifted their eyes between their peers and the clock, waiting for the moment they could turn the exams over and begin. Mamori did her best to pass an encouraging smile to the others when their looks crossed. Two minutes left. She felt her eyes drawn to a desk three rows from the back that remained empty. Perhaps they had slept in, or missed the train, or gotten sick. Perhaps they had backed out. She felt sorry for that person, in any case. They wouldn’t have a chance to prove to themselves, to the Americans, to everyone, what their personal best can be. She stared at the blank paper before her, fingers drawn to its edges, eager to begin. The nervousness was gone. All that energy had become a hunger, a fire in her heart.

            The hand on the clock slid forward.

            One minute left.

            Then a shadow entered the room, shaped like a man with long strides and his hands in his pockets. Their wide-eyed stares followed as he casually approached the empty desk. He sat, undeterred, and held a mechanical pencil high for all to see. As he stared the others down, his mouth parted into a devilish grin.

            “Kehkehkeh-- let’s destroy it!”

            The clock hand advanced again.

            They turned their exams over as one.

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So funny story: I wrote this chapter months ago. I have never taken the SATs but I did a certain amount of research on it (this story still has some factual issues, especially if you take into consideration the timeline... but whatever!) The hilarious part is I recently decided to apply to grad school in the US, and it so happens that on the day of posting this chapter I am taking the GRE exam (grad school equivalent of the SATs). I wonder how different this story would have been if I had started writing it after I had been studying for a similar exam myself. 
> 
> At any rate, you have no idea how much I wish I had a Devil's cram school to help me prep for it!!!
> 
> Anyway, the story is not over yet! See you next week with January!


	11. January

~*~

            If they thought they could surprise Hiruma, they were sorely mistaken. Two of the Devil’s Cram School members had lured him to their old study room on the pretext of handing over some information to pad out his book of threats while the others hid in the corners of the room with balloons and noisemakers and streamers. When he entered they jumped out, shouting and throwing confetti, but he walked straight to the supposed informants without acknowledging the ruckus around him.

            “Let’s make this quick, what’ve you got on that bastard?” Hiruma had already produced the threat book and a pen.

            Mamori, Yukimitsu and Ishimaru observed it all from the sidelines.

            “Yep, that was never going to work.”

            “Nope.”

            “Terrible idea.”

            A few of the students danced over with a cake. ‘ _Thank you for your hard work super-manager Hiruma_!’ was written in icing along with cute hearts and stars. Strawberries lined the base like decorative flowers.

            “Are you trying to poison me?” he looked at the cake as though it were a bomb, and not the kind of bomb he liked. “That’s a full-fledged cavity machine. Enjoy dying an early death, bastards!”

            The three former Devil Bats onlookers sighed.

            “Again, terrible idea.”

            “They wouldn’t listen.”

            “Oh well…”

            The others seemed a little disappointed but not exactly surprised. It would have been very satisfying to get a reaction from him, but they had spent enough time in his company to know better. But they had prepared a festive atmosphere and they weren’t about to let it go to waste. Hiruma opened a stick of gum and pretended not to watch them fight over who would cut the cake.

            “Keh keh keh… it just so happens I have something for you that is better than cake. Or much worse, perhaps.” He produced a dozen envelopes, seemingly from the air, displaying them in his hand like a fan.

            This brought them to a halt. They knew what they were.

            “Fuckin’ spider,” Hiruma pulled an envelope from the spread and held it out for the awkward boy, who seemed paralyzed with fear. Moriyama nudged him forward. Reluctantly he took the envelope. He studied the edges, which were sealed, but made no move to open them.

            “Hurry up and open it!” someone called out impatiently.

            “Um…” he glanced at them timidly, “I think we should open them all at the same time.”

            “Ahh! Great idea!” Takahashi rushed up to grab her own envelope. The others followed suit, though with varying levels of enthusiasm. Some ripped the paper mercilessly, others carefully sliced the fold along the edge, but all of them held their breath as they pulled the papers out. All except Mamori, who stared at the opened envelope without touching the contents.

            “No!” Moriyama exclaimed. She was peering over the shoulder of the boy-called-spider. “We tied!”

            The spider stole a glance at hers. “Well, I did better in math.”

            “Yeah, well, I did better on the essay.”

            Hiruma snuck up behind them to peek at their results. “Kehkehkehkeh!” He raised his foot in the air, but the kick that was meant for them was never delivered thanks to the swift intervention of a classroom broom.

            “You can’t just kick people!” Mamori reminded him sternly.

            “Tch. I thought pain helped people get stronger. I also thought certain geniuses had vowed to stop protecting people!”

            “You are _not_ helping them get stronger!!”

            Nearby, Ishimaru was staring at the letter with his usual neutral expression. Hiruma snatched it from him, checking his score. He continued examining it with a satisfied grin while he dodged Mamori’s block and landed a solid kick on the former track club member.

            Mamori fumed, but Yukimitsu put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ve been through worse. Save your strength to protect the others.” He handed his results over to Hiruma, bracing himself for the pain.

            Eventually Hiruma had inspected all the letters, using former Devil Bats members as kicking targets when he grew tired of Mamori’s interference. The cram school members took turns peeking at their results, congratulating and ceremoniously awarding pieces of cake to one another.

            “ _Mr.Manager_ -sama, what about you?” Aihara asked.

            Ono was already poking around Hiruma’s bag and returned with an envelope. “Found it!”

            Hiruma casually plucked it from his grasp. He already had a lighter in his hand, as though he had been waiting for that very moment. He tipped the lid and held the corner to the flame.

            “What are you doing!?!” Ono wasn’t the only one alarmed at Hiruma’s actions.

            “Kehkehkeh. It doesn’t matter.”

            “Even if you aren’t applying for American schools, you took the test. Don’t you want to know how you did?”

            “Kehkehkeh.” All that remained of the envelope and its contents was the ash that had scattered on the floor.

            “Have you ever seen Hiruma not care about performance indicators?” Yukimitsu muttered to Mamori and Ishimaru, eyes wide. The other two shook their heads in disbelief.

            “I am sure he did just great!” Aihara offered him a piece of cake. “Since he is probably the smartest one of all of us.”

            “Maybe,” Ono scoffed, “or maybe not. But there’s no proof of that now, is there?”

            Hiruma ignored the plate and their comments, all his attention on one last envelope. “Well, fucking genius…?”

            Mamori stared at the envelope again, then held it out with both hands. He pulled the edge of the letter from the opened end and unfolded it slowly, studying the results without betraying any emotion. Mamori was obviously holding her breath, waiting, hoping, dreading, praying.

            “Fucking track star, get over here.”

            Ishimaru involuntarily took a step back before obeying. Hiruma handed the pages back to their owner before trampling him within an inch of his life. This time his suffering went unnoticed by Mamori, who was completely absorbed in her results. The others watched as she turned the pages, fingers shaking, her eyes scanning each line anxiously. Finally, she crushed the letter against her face and breathed a deep sigh. When she removed the pages there were tears in her eyes but below them there was a smile unlike any they had seen before. They cheered and forced a plate into her hands. She couldn’t stop smiling.

            Hiruma flashed her the wickedest of grins. “You’re still in the game.”

 

~*~


	12. February

~*~

 

            She loved being early even more than she loved being on time, so there was really no proof that she had done it to outmanoeuvre him, but when he entered the Saikyoudai University exam room she was already sitting in the front row. He forced himself to look past her smile and sit without acknowledging the intrusion, but inside he couldn’t ignore it. Luckily, the Saikyoudai scholarship only required he take the entrance exam, not do particularly well on it. It was hard to focus with the back of her head right there, mocking all his efforts.

            When the exam ended, the upcoming generation of American football players collected outside the university doors. Saikyoudai was going to have a powerhouse team next year, thanks in no small part to his own secret drafting program. It promised to be very interesting. It promised to be very fun. But she was waiting there with them, of course, catching up—how are you, it’s been a long time, nice to meet you, and all that crap. Ikkyuu fawning and Agon leering and the others looking like bloody knights by comparison. Hiruma walked past without a word, and kept walking.

            “Hey, Hiruma,” the red-eyed bastard had spotted him. “I thought we were going to the Happyful Diner after.”

            Hiruma ignored him. His gum was almost too stale to chew, but that was just fine.

            “Hiruma?”

            “Forget that trash already.”

            The distance between them continued to grow until he had left the campus entirely. On the street there was a sore lack of things that would be satisfying to kick. He had turned the corner at the end of the block before he heard footfalls catch up with him. She had gotten better at running, at least. She wasn’t even out of breath.

            “Hiruma, what exactly is your problem?”

            “Please take a moment to reflect on what my fucking problem is.”

            “Are you upset because I didn’t ask you which Japanese university to try for?”

            “Wrong. This is about you trying for _any_ Japanese university _at all_!”

            “Is there something wrong with that?”

            “Obviously.”

            “Such as…?”

            “You don’t believe you’ll get in.”

            “Do you really think this means I gave up on studying in America?”

            “What else could it possibly mean?”

            “Well, for starters, I could take the Japanese exam with my eyes closed, so there is absolutely no reason not to take it.”

            He had thought he could write that exam with his eyes closed, too. After the SATs he had promised himself he would never study again. The Saikyoudai exam was only a cover, of course, but he was not sure he had even read the questions. “Tch. Even you aren’t that much of a nerd.”

            “Well, it’s true the academic advisor strongly encouraged me to take the Japanese exam, just in case.”

            “I am your manager. Why would you listen to that idiot? You might have ruined everything.”

            “Hiruma, you are being unreasonable. The scores already came back, the application has been already sent. Taking this exam will not change anything.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “You are being superstitious.”

            “Tch.”

            “It’s kind of cute.”

            “……tch!”

            “If you don’t come to the diner and act like the wild, cool, unbreakable person that you are, I will share a parfait with Agon.”

            “Keh, I guess you want to contract every transmittable disease known to man and die!”

            “I’d die happy.”

            “Liar.”

            She had been doing an admirable job of keeping a straight face, but she couldn’t hold back any longer. Her silly smile, the one he liked to pretend was annoying, burst out like laughter. She eventually managed to assume a more ordinary expression before turning in the direction of the diner. “I’ll go on ahead. But please don’t leave me alone with them too long, or I might really do it!”

            “Ah, no.” Hiruma pulled an automatic weapon from somewhere and stepped up to meet her stride. “I do not think you will be alone with them for a single second.”

            “Hiruma. If we arrive together, they might get the wrong idea.”

            “They are free to think whatever they want.”

            She didn’t reply. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye as he pretended to scrutinize the clouds. She was smiling, but this time it wasn’t silly. His grin showed all his teeth. That smile seemed to give him power.

            “Do you want to know the real reason I took the Saikyoudai exam?”

            It was kind of strange to walk with her under actual daylight. “Hm… do I?”

            “I did it because of you.”

            “Kehkehkeh! You thought I had an unfair advantage over all those other sorry bastards and needed a handicap?”

            “No!” she swatted his elbow. “I wanted to support you! You took the SATs with us even though you aren’t applying to any American schools. It was so… I felt stronger, taking that exam together with you. I wanted you to feel that, too. I didn’t want you to be alone. But I should have told you before. I’m sorry.”

            He had to stop. He couldn’t help it. She still hadn’t realized that he had applied to those American schools; she hadn’t yet seen through his lies. It was very in-character and quite convenient, but still… incredible. And only Anezaki Mamori thought that taking an exam was a way to be supportive. He looked her in the eyes, but she seemed completely sincere. Fucking genius…

            He didn’t remember kissing her, or maybe she was the one who kissed him, but he remembered the collective “Eehhhhh!?” of disbelief as the rest of the group turned the corner. Ah, fuck. With one arm he managed to fire a warning round in their general direction while the other held her steady. This was going to be a serious headache, but that was all the more reason to make it the best damn kiss she would ever remember. A general brawl had irrupted amongst the others as they tried to hold down Ikkyuu, who was not taking it well. Mamori buried her face in her scarf but that couldn’t hide the fact that she had turned a blistering red. Hiruma hadn’t thought his grin could get any wider, but he had obviously been terribly wrong about that. For the moment, however, he needed to focus on damage control. Another burst of ammo got their attention.

            “If a single word of this gets back to Deimon, each one of you will suddenly find you have lost something dear to you.”

            “Um, I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.” Akaba peered over his shades. “Is this not common knowledge? Are you saying your own team doesn’t know?”

            Banba put a hand on his shoulder. “You have to remember his team is comprised entirely of morons—present company excepted, of course.”

            “Whatever, I’m pretty sure I just heard this trash say he is buying us lunch for the rest of our lives, and I’m starving.” Agon had already turned toward the diner, and the others followed, dragging a comatose Ikkyuu by the collar.

            Mamori was still immobilized with embarrassment.

            “Tch. Come on, fucking genius. Show them you are unbreakable and all that, or _I_ will share a parfait with fuckin’ Dreads and contract venereal disease and then I will pass it on to you and we will both die. Double suicide.”

            Both hilarity and horror reflected on her face. Just a little more and she would take a step forward and he would win.

            “I know you are thinking that my transmittable-disease kamikaze should technically be a murder-suicide,” he went on, “but by leaving me alone with that bastard you are basically choosing your own death. Kehkehkeh!!”

            The strain of forcing back her laughter had become tears, and that ridiculous smile covered most of her face. As she wiped the corners of her eyes she whispered, “I’m going to miss you so much.”

            Why was her hair always out of place? It was so annoying. He reached out to correct the offending strands.

            “Hey. Double suicide, remember? We’re going to hell together.”

            She didn’t fume about how unfair it was when she had always been so good or how she had been planning on going to heaven since childhood or anything like that. Instead her smile became quieter, but also somehow stronger. “That sounds nice. I think would die happy.”

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My main regret is not being able to work in the line: "It will be a double murder if you keep talking about Agon's STDs while he's within earshot."
> 
> Sorry this week is so short. Next week is the final chapter!!


	13. March

~*~

            The lock on this bloody mailbox never worked properly. Hiruma rattled it again and slammed his hand against the pathetic metal pane that was supposed to open for the person with the key. Every time this happened he thought about changing mailbox rental companies, but all things being equal, this one had the most convenient location and the owners were already within his extortion array. It would be more trouble, but really only slightly more, to move somewhere else. He snagged the envelope between his fingers and pulled it through the gap he had managed to wedge in the opening.

            He had applied to schools based on very specific criteria: the football team had to be in the top ten of their respective division, and the school needed to be within a two-hour commute of a certain grandma and grandpa’s house. If this sounded sentimental, it was. That house would contain the only thing that would allow him to survive living so far away for so long. His oxygen mask for his exile on the moon.

            Three schools met his criteria. UC Berkley. San Jose. Stanford. He had studied their teams, their rosters, their game histories, their admission requirements and, of course, the coaches in charge of recruitment: their preferences, their scandals, their habits, their childhoods. Each piece of information told him his chances were next to zero, but each piece of information made his blood run hot. Stanford even had a rivalry with Notre Dame, for fucksake. It was an impossible gamble. It was a dream.

            This envelope was the last response. The other two had arrived earlier that week, but he was waiting to open them all at once. No point in stretching things out, after all. Outside, he checked the envelope one last time, looking for clues in the address or the thickness of the paper. As he turned toward his business-hotel-apartment he ran face-first into the receding hairline, not of a salary man, but of a familiar teenager. The boy jumped a foot as though caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. His eyes were on the envelope.

            “Stanford… really?”

            “Fuckin’ Baldy. Are you following me?”

            “No! I’m just going to the convenience store! I—I live right over there!” he pointed nervously. “I thought you knew that.”

            “Of course I know that! You’d better buy me a drink, then.”

            The initial shock of their meeting wore off as they walked. “I guess we are opposites, aren’t we, Hiruma?”

            “Damn-bloody-right we are fucking opposites.” Hiruma peered at him sideways. Saying something like that out loud was maddeningly curious. He had better not make him ask what he meant.

            “All this time you denied that you wanted to study in America. Even after you took the SATs, you kept swearing up and down that you weren’t going to go. And all this time, I was only pretending to want to go there.”

            “So, you didn’t even apply, even after all that?”

            Yukimitsu shook his head. “No. I couldn’t do it. It would be something to be proud of, I know. It would make my mom really happy, too. But I kept picturing life there, being so far away and alone. The rest of them, Moriyama-san and Anezaki-san and the rest, they are really brave. Even Aihara-san is stronger than me.”

            Hiruma ground his teeth. Stop with the knife to the heart already. “Why’d you do it, then, join the study group? I didn’t threaten you. I mean, not really.”

            “No, it wasn’t that.” Yukimitsu shrugged. “Being part of the Devil Bats was the first time I was part of a team. Then it was over. Third year with no clubs, I was going back to being a lonely nerd again. I didn’t know why you were doing it, but I knew I would be the biggest idiot if I missed out on that cram school, if you were leading it.”

            “Keh, that almost sounds like a compliment.” Hiruma’s mischievous grin plastered his face.

            “Haha, well, yeah. Plus you needed someone like me, with the all the book smarts. I couldn’t let you down.”

            Hiruma cackled long and hard at that and Yukimitsu dared to laugh with him. He fed some change in the vending machine outside the store and they shared the conveniently hot drinks in the sun at a tiny park nearby.

            “Hiruma. Why Stanford? They have a great team and everything but your chances--”

            “--are practically zero. Obviously.”

            “R-right...” the kid’s face was confused, “but there are lots of schools you could get into easily, ones with really great teams, too. Stanford’s acceptance rate is incredibly low. How can you think you can start studying in your last year of high school and have any hope? Anezaki-san has been working for years to build her academic record so she could have a fighting chance at that school, and it’s still just wishing on a star.”

            “It’s not a fucking wish. The fucking genius is going to be accepted.”

            Yukimitsu recoiled a little at the edge in the response. Then his mouth formed a small circle of enlightenment. “Oh.”

            “Oh?” Hiruma’s glare was a sharp warning.

            “It was for her.”

            “Watch your tongue, or I’ll have it removed.” Hiruma realized it was dangerous to be without a weapon. He unzipped his bag.

            “You have some good qualities. Lots of good qualities actually.”

            “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” That compact black handgun seemed appropriate. It was cold in his hands—but not for long, the way things seemed to be shaping up.

            Yukimitsu watched as he loaded the clip. “I think you will be happy in America.” His response seemed to be more a reference to the gun than his previous statement.

            “I will definitely NOT be happy in America.” Hiruma snapped. Yukimitsu stared at him with that annoying look of confusion. How come the smartest people were also the most stupid? But some nagging feeling compelled him to open his mouth again. “Yes. The cram school was for her. I owed her that. You owed her that, too. So we paid it back, didn’t we? Properly. That is why she must be accepted.”

            Yukimitsu’s eyes were huge. “We owed her for…?”

            “You know what for.”

            “Hiruma, she doesn’t think of it like that! Definitely, she definitely feels the same as we did about the Christmas Bowl.”

            “No, it’s not the fucking same. You know her. She would give and give and give and take nothing for herself. I kept taking because that was what we needed to win, and it was by a convenient coincidence that she was happy to keep giving.”

            Yukimitsu watched him, bewildered. “I really don’t think it was a coincidence.”

            “Do you think I would have stopped after it stopped being fun for her? Here are some facts for you: I didn’t stop. Her dream was not to fight to the top of some sports tournament. Her dream is to be accepted to this world-class school with impossible odds. I live to defy odds. The conclusion is simple.”

            “Yeah. You love her.”

            A bullet struck perilously close to the balding teen almost the same moment as he pulled the trigger. Then another, and one more. The empty shells chimed at his feet. “You should really carefully consider the shit that comes out of your mouth.”

            “You are following her there.”

            “I am not following her. She created conditions of possibility, going there.” Why was he still babbling? He aimed at the side of the trashcan just past Yukimitsu’s shoulder. With the angle of the ricochet, the shot could probably knock down the empty drink can on the bench beside him, but he didn’t fire. “It changed things.”

            “It opened a door and you can’t walk away.” Baldy seemed to understand, somehow. “And Musashi, and Kurita?”

            “Tch. Apparently they can’t wait to get rid of me.”

            “You’ll make them proud, though. Then you’ll come back.”

            Hiruma closed his eyes and tested the resistance of the trigger. How hard could he press before it fired? Where would the shot land? Finally, he lowered the gun. He should know that talking never solved anything. “Fuckin’ Baldy. It would be better if you had never seen that envelope.”

            Yukimitsu smiled. “What envelope?”

 

 ~*~

 

            All three envelopes contained rejections.

 

~*~

 

 

            Monday morning Hiruma waited outside her gate, leaning against the stone fence as he always did. She was never late. She was never absent. He checked his phone and frowned but couldn’t bring himself to send a message. She’d come or she’d say something. He could wait.

            It was nearly nine o’clock when he heard the front door open, but it was that lady, her mother. She paused in her quick strides when she saw him, a little startled but also visibly relieved. “Oh, Hiruma, you came. Oh, good.” She looked as though she hadn’t slept. “Go on inside. There are some rice balls on the counter. Maybe you can… She should really eat.” The heavy perfume-scent of incense hung around her. It lingered even after she excused herself and hurried off.

            Fuck.

            Mamori was in the tatami room, kneeling before the family shrine. So, even half-American families kept household alters. The notion was absolutely ridiculous to him, but in her case, of course, it fit perfectly. She loved her family, they loved her back, it was natural that she would keep in touch with her ancestors or whatever. Three sticks of incense burned beside the photo of the recently deceased, some old foreign lady he had never seen before, but maybe the eyes could connect her to the Anezaki women he knew. The grandma? Fuck. Why had he come inside? He was only going to make things worse.

            She had once been kneeling properly, he could tell, but since then her posture had crumpled and her feet had come untucked. The look on her face was worse than her dark glare had been: tired red eyes that saw nothing, with no strength left even to sob. The glare had hurt him, but this made him feel something else, like the particular feeling that haunted him when he ran out of plots and schemes. More immediately, the stink of the incense was suffocating. It must have been burning for days. That weekend there had been no study group, of course, no school activities, no tournament games or practices. He hadn’t seen her since Friday. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

            With that look it was hard to tell if she was even aware he was there. He wondered how he should announce his presence without being a completely insensitive bastard. Everything he thought to say or do struck him as inappropriate. The proper thing to do would be to pay his respects. That was out of the question. He would not be bowing to anyone, and definitely not to some ungrateful dead granny who gave up too early. He would not pay respects to that dream-destroying witch.

            Behind her he noticed a pile of envelopes on the low table. Most were from the minor schools, the ones where she would have live on her own to attend and only visit her grandparents on weekends. The ones she could have gotten into without making much effort. Though he called himself her manager, he had forgotten she had applied to those. The one that mattered was resting on the top. The fourth-highest ranked university in America, the school that little Anezaki Mamori dreamed of entering since before junior high. That he gave up a year of freedom and illicit football club participation in a gamble to make real. The drip, drip of apprehension in the back of his throat was eating a hole in his gut. He forced himself to pick up the envelope. It was thicker than his had been. He slid the papers out and unfolded them.

_Congratulations..._

            The edges of the paper crushed under his grip. Goddamn, winning felt too fucking good, it wasn’t right to keep it inside. He eyed the gentle curve of her spine. He wasn’t in the habit of kicking girls, but maybe it was time to change that policy. He shifted his gaze to the table. Up-ending then kicking it might be a satisfactory substitute. The broken pieces could later be set on fire (not in a room made of fucking straw, of course, fabulous as that might be). Firecrackers would be needed. And very big and flashy explosions. He knew exactly which semi-automatic model fired the most bullets per round at the highest rate per second. Why hadn’t he brought them today? It would have been perfect. One in each arm: Brattatatatatatataaaaaaaa…

            “It’s amazing, right?” she said with a dead voice. “I was accepted. They chose me. It’s a dream come true.”

            A voice to match those empty eyes. Though he refused to kneel before that altar, he could still sit beside her. He considered this from many angles and decided it was not an obviously terrible decision. He glared at the photo in the frame and sat with his back to it. This was that hag’s fault.

            “So your grandpa is alone now.” It was his duty to lighten the mood, and somehow this was the bright side. “He’s a lucky bastard, getting you all to himself. I hope he doesn’t take all your time and lets you study a bit while you are at that fancy school.”

            That was when the tears that had seemed to be already exhausted swelled in her eyes again. With a shuddering breath she began sobbing with an urgency that couldn't be slowed despite her obvious effort to fight it. Fuck. Something terrible was happening that was completely beyond his control. No. Don’t panic. Dammit. He wished he could promise never to open his mouth again in exchange for taking it all back, but even if it were possible that would be another bloody lie.

            “He’s… he’s…” she managed between gulping breaths punctuated by tears, “he’s m-moving ba-a-ack to Japan-n. A-and gon-n-na live here… s-so Mama ca-a-an take- ta-ake-- take care of hi-im-m.” The end of the phrase was more a series of hyperventilated sounds than proper words. “A-a-and I, and I-I-I do-don’t know-w wha-at to-- to—do-o-o…”

            Bloody fucking hell. He was starting to have a very strong grudge against the forbearers of this family. He stretched out his arm. He wasn’t exactly sure where it should go, but somehow he had to pull her close to him. Her breath and her body were warm but her tears against his shoulder were so wet. He held her as she shuddered and wept, waiting for the worst to subside. He knew that she had to choose and that came with pain, but for him the decision was obvious.

            “Mamori.”

            Her sobbing was arrested in a hiccup of surprise. She pulled back enough to look into his face.

            “Stay.”

            “W-what..?"

            “Don’t go to America. Stay.”

            “Wha-a-at are you saying? I-- I-- I--"

            “Stay here. Stay in Japan. Don’t go.”

            “How can you say that? After everything… I worked so hard.” Her voice cracked under the weight of the victory that had been stolen from her. “You know how hard I worked for this!”

            “Yeah, I know,” he said. Who knew better than he did? “You told me your dream was to be accepted at that school. You were accepted. They chose you. You were chosen, you won. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

            “It’s not just that…”

            “Everyone you love is here. Who will you take care of? Who will you protect?” She was so fucking smart but sometimes she had to be shown things outright before she could see them for what they were. “There is nothing for you there. Your spirit will be stretched across the fucking ocean. You will be an empty shell. Part of you will die there and you will never be whole again.”

            He had examined this scenario in his mind a thousand times before, for completely different reasons. For a very different person. She stared at him with huge, bewildered eyes, but she had regained control of her runaway lungs.

            “Now you’re doing that thing I used to do,” she murmured, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You don’t want me to get hurt. You think I’m going to break instead of getting stronger.”

            “I don’t fucking care about you getting hurt. I know you can take it. I know you’ll get stronger. I don’t care about that. I care about you being miserable for four years! I don’t want you to be stronger. I want you to be happy.”

            “What about what I want?” The questions might have been defiant if not for the stray hiccup that made her sound incredibly fragile.

            “Yes. What do you want? Name it. Mamori, name it and I will make it for you here. Fuck America. Fuck Stanford. We live in Tokyo, for fucksake!! If we can’t do it here it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is you want, I will create the conditions of possibility for you right here.”

            “Hiruma…”

            “You know me. You know I will do it.”

            “Yes, but…”

            “This is the deal: Stay. In exchange, I will give you my life.”

            She froze. Or time froze. His heart froze, terrified, unable to beat. There was a price to pay for your heart’s desire. No. Fuck that shit. Everyone was going to live happily ever after; fuck being sad, fuck being broken. But no matter how hard he fought, it was her choice. Her cut. The knife was in her hands now.

            “You’re right,” she murmured finally, a quiet smile appearing on her tear-streaked face. _That_ smile. He pulled her against him again so her words were close when she said, “Everyone I love is here.”

 

 

 

 

 

~* fin *~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented. It has been so nice to share this story with you. I wasn't sure about posting it originally but your comments have made it so worthwhile!! 
> 
> Meanwhile, completely unplanned, somehow an epilogue has emerged! Please see [the Dealer's Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9835070). 
> 
> {Edit to add: I just wanted to point out [this fabulous fan art of Hiruma as a professor](https://mobile.twitter.com/aozorauma/status/559977558247104512?s=09)......or perhaps cram school manager?!!? Particularly wonderful to note this work features his beautiful glasses!! waahhh!! }


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